


Say the Word(And I'll Give You Everything)

by Filomena



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (this is a light fic - don't let the tags scare you!), Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Engineer!Yamaguchi, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Government, M/M, POV Alternating, References to Depression, References to anxiety, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Surveillance, Therapy, Tsukishima Kei is Bad at Feelings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, WishGranter!Tsukishima, and yamaguchi's obsession with floppy fries, excessive mentions of tsukishima's awful sweet tooth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25196482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filomena/pseuds/Filomena
Summary: Tsukishima stares at the page of his new manual, which surprisingly has a section for granting happiness.1. Identify desired material possessions, and gratify accordingly.He’s not paid enough for this. As he sits in his uncomfortable chair, already envisioning the hours of surveillance footage he'll have to analyze, he feels like giving up.“Material possessions,” he mutters, playing with his pen. The disdain in his voice practically drips onto the floor. Despite it being noon, his monitor’s light is already getting to him.From the Welcome to Night Vale prompt: "When you wish upon a star, it is actually a satellite, and your wish has been recorded and cataloged. An agent is now assigned to your case."Yamaguchi Tadashi is a worn out engineer who wishes for happiness. Tsukishima Kei is the agent assigned to his case, and to his frustration, finds out that happiness is quite a difficult thing to grant.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Kageyama Tobio, Kuroo Tetsurou & Tsukishima Kei, Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 74
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

A blotch of white smears across the polluted, cloudy sky. Yamaguchi holds his breath after it disappears entirely. 

Is there a point in wishing for anything? 

He adjusts the bag on his shoulder awkwardly, standing in the middle of the empty sidewalk. The woes of his day immediately vie for his attention: all the broken robots he’d been assigned to fix, even though they were meant for the interns, and all the apologizing he had to do because Hinata dropped his coffee yet again.

It makes the already appearing wrinkles on his face sink deeper. The lunch in his bag rustles annoyingly, because he had somehow neglected to eat it again.

He’s tired. Covering up for Hinata is slowly grating away at his nerves.

The sky is completely plain now, so there’s no point in making any wishes now. _It’s not like it’s real, anyways,_ Yamaguchi thinks, scoffing slightly to himself. He holds his bag more tightly, and his legs start to protest at being in the same position for too long.

Fuck it. 

“I…” he says out loud, feeling stupid even though he’s the only one on the damn street. “I wish -” 

What does he want? Money?

“I wish I could be happy.”

* * *

Kuroo leans into the blurry footage of the satellite’s camera. He’s so close that he almost bumps noses with the screen, as if the audio coming out of the speakers isn’t enough for him. 

“Are you trying to launch yourself into cyberspace?” Tsukishima asks drily. Mentally, he’s groaning at another vague wish he has to somehow fulfill.

Kuroo doesn’t say anything, instead tilting his head this way and that. “Hey,” he drawls out, “he has a ton of freckles.”

Tsukishima sighs through his nose, moving his glasses up to rub at his tired eyes. “Great. Now get out of my face.”

Surprisingly, Kuroo relents, and moves a comfortable distance away from Tsukishima. He hums thoughtfully. “How’re you gonna do it?” he asks, crossing his arms.

The screen flickers. The freckled guy has finally started to move, and his shoulders are slightly hunched out of what seems like self consciousness. 

Tsukishima rests his head on two fingers. The pressure on his skin does nothing to ease his slowly growing headache. “I’m not.” 

“What do you mean?” Kuroo asks, shifting his weight onto one foot. “It’s your task. You gotta.”

Tsukishima snorts. He gestures somewhere towards the book on his desk, which is the one every wish agent is given. “It’s too vague. I’ll put that in my report to the higher ups.”

A sigh. It seems that even Kuroo is starting to quail under the harsh, glaring lights, and the endless stream of audio he has to analyze. “Alright.”

There’s footsteps pattering towards the door. Tsukishima never bothers to say goodbye, and that applies to this case too. He turns slightly in his chair, wincing at how sore his back gets.

The footsteps stop. “I heard the higher ups are changing some things, though,” Kuroo adds on.

Tsukishima picks up a pen and throws it near his stationery holder. He misses terribly. “Still too vague.”

Kuroo’s tongue clicks. Since when did he adapt that habit? “If you say so, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima refuses to get annoyed at the nickname, and rolls his eyes instead. He’s too goddamn tired.

* * *

“That can’t be done.” Shimizu stares at Tsukishima from across her desk. The height difference, especially when he’s standing while someone else sits, should make her at least slightly nervous. She indicates nothing in her calm exterior.

Tsukishima wishes there was an intern at the desk. The usual one is always terrified of him, so she would have most definitely cowered and found another solution.

Shimizu, however, has her hands folded primly in front of her. “Is there anything you want to ask me?” she asks, skating over any of Tsukishima’s bated replies.

“Why not? Surely, the higher ups wouldn’t ask me to grant something so vague -”

“You’ve turned down or given away almost half of your assignments, Tsukishima.” 

Tsukishima’s mouth snaps shut. “They were outside of my breadth.”

Shimizu’s eyes burn into him. “Because I made it that way. I’ve been too lenient with you.” 

Suddenly, the distance between him and the desk seems enormous. “What do you mean?” he demands. He thought he had valid excuses in all of his letters. They were accepted without any protest, and he got to figure out his bigger projects in the meantime.

“I’d rather not talk about this,” Shimizu replies, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “but I figured you needed it.”

Tsukishima’s eyes narrow. In the back of his mind, his case from last month bumps around his thoughts. “Specify _it.”_

Of course, Shimizu is impervious to even Tsukishima’s glares. “A break.” Her voice comes out firm and unwithering. “A break, Tsukishima. We can’t have you doing work in an unstable state.” 

“I wasn’t in an unstable state,” Tsukishima all but spits out. “I was fine. I still showed up and handed everything in on time.”

Shimizu raises her eyebrows. “Your productivity was down forty three percent.”

“Because I was experiencing some -”

“Insomnia?” Shimizu finishes. “Restlessness? Nightmares? Bouts of apathy?”

Each question pokes a hole through Tsukishima’s chest. “None. Why should you be concerned?” he decides to sneer out instead, even though it’s a weak rebuttal that makes his insides turn.

“Because we can’t have you work in an unstable state.” Shimizu repeats her earlier statement to him calmly, as if he’s a toddler throwing a tantrum. 

It bristles at his already haggard nerves. “Like I said,” he continues politely, as if he hadn’t just snapped at Shimizu, “this is still too vague. It goes against government guidelines.”

“Government guidelines have changed recently.”

Tsukishima feels his neck begin to stiffen. “My case is especially vague. Have you looked it over yet?” 

Shimizu turns around, rummaging in her cabinets. She has a new book of guidelines before he can blink, and she pushes it towards him, saying, “Yes. Read through the new book.”

Eyeing it with distaste, Tsukishima takes it gingerly in his hands. He pushes up his glasses. His defeat has been made clear, and under Shimizu’s steadfast gaze and the growing looks of everyone around him, he shoves the book under his arm. 

“Thank you.” He bows politely, letting his voice pinch ever so slightly. He doesn’t wait for Shimizu’s reply as he makes it back to his office.

* * *

Tsukishima stares at the open page of his new book, which surprisingly has a section for granting happiness. 

_1\. Identify desired material possessions, and gratify accordingly._

He’s not paid enough for this. As he sits in his uncomfortable chair, already envisioning the hours of surveillance footage he'll have to analyze, he feels like giving up.

“Material possessions,” he mutters, playing with his pen. The disdain in his voice practically drips onto the floor. Despite it being noon, his monitor’s light is already getting to him. 

A sigh rumbles out of his lungs. He has no choice but to analyze his project’s personal life, like the lamest government mandated spy ever. When he motions towards his monitor to reel the tapes, he stops himself immediately.

What are most people unhappy about?

A smirk makes its way onto Tsukishima’s face. _Money._ All he needs to do, if his project is as averagely woe-burdened as everyone else, is to give him a raise. 

His hands type before he knows it, finding out his project’s job and occupation. It’s decidedly average: he’s a new graduate who works in a mechatronics branch. Starting salary is small, which is exactly how much he should be earning. Work history is also small.

The company his project works for, Karasuno Electronics, is prestigious. If Tsukishima tried counting their products in his office, he’d lose track.

Tapping on his laptop, he tries to find an adequate raise. His project has been working for a year, but hasn’t been promoted once. 

_About time, then,_ he muses, looking over the employer reports. His project is nice and gets things done on time. When he raises ideas, they’re useful and immediately implemented.

An average, solid worker. He’s probably been waiting for his raise this whole year. 

Tsukishima hovers his mouse over the financial reports, editing the ones set for this week. If he plays his cards right, and balances just the right amount of new money, he can make his project satisfied.

An enter button has never been pressed so quickly. Easy come, easy go. He rests his sore neck on his arms, looking up at the ceiling. His daily quota of work has been filled.

* * *

Yamaguchi’s confused. He’s kind of happy and satisfied, yes, but he’s also confused.

“Anything wrong?” Daichi asks, looking at him from over his desk. Yamaguchi is quite lanky on his own, but even when Daichi sits down, he feels a foot shorter than him.

The question forces Yamaguchi’s eyes to land on Daichi’s face. “Uh,” he says eloquently, kicking himself instantly, “nothing. I’m thankful for the raise.”

Daichi hums in agreement. His attention is already on the sheaf of papers that have collected on his desk. He rummages through them, saying, “Higher ups decided it. No need to thank me.”

The reply seems standoffish and rigid, even though Yamaguchi tries his best not to think of it that way. _Surely,_ he hopes, _Daichi thinks I deserve this raise too._

To ask him that would be out of the question. Yamaguchi sees Daichi ruffle through the pages in front of him, which he now recognizes as the blueprints handed in by engineers. He swallows as subtly as he can. His are definitely somewhere there.

When he makes it out of the door, he closes it quietly behind him. He doesn’t really want to go back to his desk, where he has to wrangle Hinata or pacify Kageyama’s unstable temper. 

His raise prevents him from fantasizing about skipping work any further. 

* * *

The money sits in Yamaguchi’s savings account. He’s racking up a decent flow into there, which is nice, and definitely a change from the bare account it was before.

More money. It should solve at least one of his problems, but he doesn’t have problems that can be solved with money.

To be fair, he’s not sure if he has any problems he needs to solve. He doesn’t need extra money for food. His rent is taken care of, and he doesn’t care for the newest tech in the market(working in tech does that to him, counterintuitively enough). Simply put, he’s fine where he is.

Never mind the fact that he wished for happiness. That was a bout of the strange mood he was in that day, and it’s not like it would be granted anyways.

 _Never mind it all_ , Yamaguchi resolves, shaking his head clear of all thoughts. He focuses on the increased money in his savings account, trying to derive some sort of pleasure or satisfaction from its added security.

If pleasure and satisfaction feel like utter numbness, he’s doing it right.

* * *

Tsukishima rubs his eyes for far too long this time, and he knows it. White globs dance around his vision as he looks at his project’s bank information.

All of the money from the raise was put into a savings account. Great, wonderful, and often things people should be _happy_ about.

But when he looks at the surveillance camera, his project looks positively glum. Hell, his project looks like he’s watching his bank account go into the negatives, which makes Tsukishima want to rub his eyes for a second time. 

_“God,”_ he sighs, trying to undo the cricks in his back. This case is hopeless. Who the hell doesn’t get happy at the addition of more money? He can think of people who would throw themselves at his feet to get a raise. 

His project sighs forlornly, closing the bank statement and getting up. Tsukishima closes the window of the surveillance reel and goes over his options.

He could put more money into his account. His project could just be incredibly greedy. _But who looks so glum adding money into their bank account?_ He parries, steepling his hands together.

There’s no choice. He’s going to have to scour the surveillance tapes for information and take notes, like the government mandated stalker he is. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever put this much attention onto another person. _Why do stalkers exist,_ he ponders irritably, _when it’s so goddamn boring?_

It’s because of obsession. He knows. But if someone were to correct him, at this very moment and time, he wouldn’t hesitate to knock them out.

* * *

It’s been three days. Tsukishima has noted down every possible detail he could about his project - eating habits, affinities, and even hobbies.

He’s also found out that his project’s name is Yamaguchi Tadashi. He’s never learned the names of his projects, ever, which bodes badly for this one.

“What’s this?” Kuroo asks, and Tsukishima turns his head to see a familiar bedhead near his shoulder.

Too close to his shoulder. “Do you ever knock before entering, Kuroo?” Tsukishima asks, leaning away in his chair. He makes sure to look affronted enough.

To his relief, Kuroo changes so that he stands a comfortable metre away. “Assignment from before?” he asks, gesturing at the screens.

Tsukishima scoffs in a way he thinks is imperceptible. “Unfortunately.” 

Kuroo smiles wide and easy, like a cat after getting food shoved in front of its face. “Why, Tsukki,” he jibes, “I didn’t think you’d hate it that much.”

Tsukishima glares, turning around immediately. “You try granting someone _happiness.”_

“I mean,” Kuroo says, shrugging in his nonchalant way that gets on Tsukishima’s nerves, “it’s not rocket science. Just give him a raise.”

Against his control, Tsukishima huffs. Kuroo smirks unbeknownst to him. “I did. I’ve never seen a project look so glum.”

Kuroo laughs in surprise. “Glum? Jesus Christ. Get him a therapist.”

Tsukishima taps his desk irritably. “I might. The project seems….” he wracks his brain for any words that can describe his experience surveilling Yamaguchi. Odd? Monotonous? “Unsatisfied.”

Kuroo’s incisors shine in the light of the harsh monitors. “Then give him everything, Tsukki.”

Everything? But Yamaguchi has everything. Even though Kuroo’s clearly joking, there’s nothing Tsukishima can even think of giving him. “He _has_ everything, though,” Tsukishima mumbles, swaying his chair slightly. His finger grazes over his lower lip in thought.

“And why are you calling him a project, Tsukki?” Kuroo continues on, ignoring how he makes Tsukishima snap up from his concentration with a glare. “Isn’t that a bit dehumanizing?”

Tsukishima watches Yamaguchi stumble slightly on the way out of his building. He’s kind of a klutz. “Isn’t that what he is?” he shoots back. 

Kuroo slaps the back of Tsukishima’s chair, pointedly looking at the monitor to avoid the glare coming his way. “He’s a human. Find his favourite food and give him a discount, or something.”

Oddly enough, Tsukishima doesn’t find that idea half bad. Maybe it’s because of his mounting desperation. 

* * *

Yamaguchi has an unfortunate taste in food. He eats fries often, but not the ones that are fried to crispy perfection.

They’re the floppy ones. Tsukishima has watched Yamaguchi rifle through packets of fries for the soft, mushy ones at the bottom, and it makes him shiver in disgust every time. Poring over surveillance footage doesn’t help either, because Yamaguchi tends to have them every time his work day goes badly.

Judging from the new hire he has to wrangle, that seems to be every day.

It’s not like Tsukishima is a lazy wish granter. Food is the absolute last resort he would go to, but nothing else has worked for Yamaguchi. 

He’s placed countless dogs along the road near Yamaguchi’s apartment complex. Yamaguchi pets all of them willingly, but he still orders those damn fries after work. He’s placed lucky coins on his path, the ones that are turned over on the tail ends, and Yamaguchi pockets each one.

But Yamaguchi still buys himself fries. And if he loves them so much, Tsukishima rationalizes, he can just have more of them.

The monitor shows the restaurant Yamaguchi frequents, now boasting a new discount on fries. When he strolls through the doors, bumping slightly into them as he goes, he’s surprised to find the cashier beaming at him.

This is the moment where his face should light up. Tsukishima looks over his folded hands, and considers sending a prayer to the lord of floppy fries.

Yamaguchi’s face does light up. Anyone else’s would, especially if they were given a free order for being such a loyal customer, and double the amount of food. 

Tsukishima watches him attack the pile of fries with a bated breath. A discount wouldn’t lift Yamaguchi’s impenetrable gloom immediately, but it would make him happy enough to get this bothersome case off his back. 

“Come on,” Tsukishima urges the screen. He can’t be bothered to cringe at himself, not with the hours of surveillance footage he’s pored over. 

Yamaguchi finishes his serving of fries in a flash. His face seems more content than before, and he goes through his typical motions of folding up the container and throwing it out on his way out.

However, the farther away he walks from the restaurant, the more his face falls. When his mouth sets into its typical hard line, Tsukishima lets his head fall onto his desk with a _thunk._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima forgets that human connections are endlessly messy. Meanwhile, Yamaguchi has no idea what's going on.

_2\. Identify emotional stressors and relievers, and grant accordingly._

If there’s one thing Tsukishima hates about his job, it’s the excessive use of the word “grant”. He’s not a fairy that responds to the crestfallen civilian - he’s a strategic planner who appeases his projects and makes sure everything doesn’t go to shit.

His last case, which had gone to shit, is something he refuses to think about. Instead, he focuses on the ludicrousy his higher ups are putting him. Emotional stressors and relievers? Why can’t the government offer mandated therapy instead?

 _It would cost less money,_ Tsukishima thinks bitterly, _and less years of my lifespan._ The monitor in front of him, which he has an increasing urge to pitch out of a window(or at Kuroo), is displaying Yamaguchi’s office. 

Yamaguchi’s main emotional stressors are the two idiots he supervises at work. Tsukishima, despite knowing so much about him, hasn’t bothered to find out the names of his coworkers. Their lack of competency manages to leech through his computer screen, making him illogically spiteful towards them. 

The natural step is to separate them. At least once a day, Yamaguchi apologizes for their actions or prevents them from getting fired. His face crumples each time, and without fail, he hides it under a sheepish smile. 

It makes Tsukishima frown whenever he sees it. His project is far too selfless for his own good, running himself ragged trying to fix the mistakes of others.

Hence the separation. He scans Yamaguchi’s coworkers, pointedly skating over the pictures of his two juniors, until he lands on another senior.

Sugawara Koushi. Has mentored people in the past, and from the looks of it, he mentored Yamaguchi too.

He’s going to be the one to wrangle the banes of Yamaguchi’s existence. Tsukishima, despite never having played with human connections, is confident enough in his problem solving abilities. He’s worked on harder cases in far less time. This should work out, and soon he can wrap this case up. 

The change is easy to implement. Now he has to wait.

* * *

“We’re not assigned to you anymore!” Hinata exclaims, the moment Yamaguchi’s entered the office.

Yamaguchi almost drops his suitcase. “What?” he manages to say, glancing over at Kageyama, who remains stoically seated at his desk like usual.

“We’re not-” Hinata starts to say again,

“He heard what you said, dumbass,” Kageyama interrupts, his temper already breaking out on his face.

Yamaguchi feels his shoulders sag, envisioning the placating he’ll have to do to break up another fight. It’s not even noon yet. Where the hell do Hinata and Kageyama get their energy from? 

“Why?” he asks instead. If he changes the subject fast enough, the conflict between the two will dissipate.

Unless it’s something they both have strong opinions on. In that case, he has a list of topics he’s learned to never bring up around them: the best dog breeds, the best AI systems, whether the electrical tower near their building is a replica of the Tokyo tower, etc. 

Hinata smiles cheerfully. Yamaguchi wills every bone in his body not to wince. “No idea. Apparently it was a message from the higher ups.”

The higher ups? Why would the higher ups care about lower level engineers like Yamaguchi and his juniors? The only possible option, he figures, is if his managers talked to them.

A realization hits him right through the chest, waking him up immediately. What if he’s done his job so badly that his managers had to talk it out with the higher ups? 

What if they’re considering firing him?

“Yamaguchi?” Hinata asks. His voice sounds small over the white noise of Yamaguchi’s thoughts. “Are you alright?”

Kageyama, bless his usually dense heart, seems to catch on. “Oi, Hinata,” he says, and all the worry and concern on Hinata’s face melts straight off. “Your design sucks, so I improved it last night.”

“Wh-” Hinata splutters, immediately looking incensed. Meanwhile, Yamaguchi takes the change in the atmosphere as a chance to control his breathing. “Who gave you the right?! And you got overtime? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Hinata’s questions shoot off one after another. Anyone else would be overwhelmed, but Kageyama takes it all in stride with his blank face. “Because you’re dumb, and you made a lot of mistakes.” He gives room for Hinata to shove himself into his space, his hand pointing at the engineering drawings laid on his desk. “I’ll show you what you did wrong.”

Hinata looks like an angry, sentient clementine, but he seems to bite away any retorts. “Fine.”

And just like that, the news is broken to Yamaguchi. 

“Wait,” he says, settling his things down. He tries to control his voice, even though that makes it fluctuate more. “Who’s in charge of you, then?” he asks. He hopes it’s someone newer than him. Maybe they needed another employee to practice mentoring, and handed off his juniors to them.

Kageyama shifts through the drawings, despite Hinata huffing in protest. He brings out a slip of paper, reading out, “Sugawara Koushi.”

Yamaguchi’s hands clench on his suitcase, which he was just starting to place beside his desk. _Sugawara Koushi._ The far more experienced senior had mentored Yamaguchi himself, and from the looks of it, will be repairing the damage he’s done to his two juniors. “Oh.”

Hinata has turned to Yamaguchi again, his eyes wide and naive. He looks like a kid straight out of high school, which is incredibly ill fitting in an office full of people above thirty. “He isn’t mean, is he?” he inquires, tilting his head.

Yamaguchi remembers Sugawara’s comforting presence amongst all his stuttering and nervousness. “No,” he manages to laugh out, in what he hopes to God is a reassuring tone. “He’s a good person. I think you’ll like him.”

“It says here that we have to meet him at nine,” Kageyama interjects. He’s already taken his required design plans and placed them in a folder, which he has tucked under his arms. Hinata’s remain scattered on his desk.

In a flash, Hinata’s stuffing his plans into one messy pile, which he attempts to wrangle in his hands. “Bakageyama,” he almost shrieks, pointing at the clock, which reads five past nine, “Why didn’t you read the note earlier? We’re late!”

Kageyama yanks Hinata by the arm, and Yamaguchi wonders if he’ll have to pull them apart soon. “Then hurry, dumbass!” he barks out, and they both run-shuffle out the room.

They’re almost out the door when Hinata comes bounding back.

“What are you doing, you idiot?” Kageyama roars, holding the door wide open. Yamaguchi winces at the looks his other coworkers are giving them.

“Just wait a sec!” Hinata hollers back, and somehow manages to not look terrified at the glance Kageyama sends his way.

He’s starting to tear up. Oh no. “Yamaguchi,” he begins to say, and Yamaguchi’s wondering how many tissues and offers of barbeque he’ll have to give.

“Thank you for everything!” he says instead, surprising Yamaguchi. To further defy his expectations, he hugs him tightly, the papers threatening to slide down their woefully connected bodies.

Yamaguchi pats Hinata’s back awkwardly. “There, there,” he comforts awkwardly. That’s what you say when you comfort people, right? “We’ll still see each other in the morning. And we can have barbeque for lunch, just like old times.” 

Hinata looks up at him, tears sliding down his face. He’s already sniffling his nose. Yamaguchi’s going to put his clothes in the wash, just in case. “Promise?”

“Hinata!” Kageyama yells, swinging the door impatiently. “It’s ten past!”

“Yeah.” Yamaguchi gives a little grin, because despite his higher ups probably wanting to fire him, at least his juniors still like him.

Kageyama’s hanging on the door, glaring at the two of them. 

Correction: _one_ of his juniors still likes him. 

Shoving the thought aside, he glances at the clock, which now reads thirteen past. He pats Hinata’s back again, unfurling himself from his koala-like embrace. “You should go now. And lunch will be in a few hours, so wait until then, okay?”

Hinata nods, his face set in some strange form of resolution. He then races to Kageyama, and their bickering can be heard even when the door has slammed behind them.

The absence of noise is discombobulating. Yamaguchi sits down to assemble his things, and realizes that he hasn’t even taken off his coat yet. 

* * *

It’s nice in the beginning. Hinata and Kageyama leave exactly at nine, yelling and scrambling to the door like alley cats, because they’re late every single day. Yamaguchi makes sure to give them a little wave before getting to his regular work.

Work, as it turns out, is much easier when you don’t have to separate fights, or offer barbeque as a way to dispel dumb arguments. Everything is done before five, and he’s out the door earlier than his other coworkers.

It’s actually not that bad. He doesn’t stop for fries as much, because he’s decided that it’s bad for his health. His house has those oven baked ones he can control the floppiness of. Life is stable, if not good. 

But sometimes his coworkers side eye him when he’s leaving. And his work seems to be too easy, in some strange way. As if despite putting his all into his designs, there’s something else he has to be doing. 

The thought strikes Yamaguchi as he walks home from work one day. Then, he decides, seeing the familiar storefront of the mom and pop restaurant he frequents, that oven baked fries won’t cut it today.

 _Where did my resolution go?_ He wonders, staring at his steaming basket of fries. Today wasn’t even a bad day. He did everything he had to do, and he was done.

“Where’d your juniors go, Yamaguchi?” Tanaka had asked earlier in the day, swinging by Yamaguchi’s desk.

“Oh,” Yamaguchi had said, scratching his neck idly. “They were given to Sugawara.”

Tanaka had hummed. “Explains why it’s so quiet and peaceful here.” He had already started to leave Yamaguchi’s desk, but not before adding on, “Although training the younger ones is always a nice challenge, right, Yamaguchi?”

 _A nice challenge._ Yamaguchi sets his face into his hand, using the other to poke through his fries. He doesn’t know which realization is worse: that he misses the bickering of his juniors, or that his current work is unsatisfying and indicates that he’s another cog in a corporate machine.

The memories of the past week and a half, of the underwhelming work and the inactivity of it all, sour any silence he had experienced.

He’s back at square one. Or maybe square negative one, considering his mood is more brooding than usual.

* * *

When Tsukishima watches Yamaguchi order fries again, it’s like seeing a sports team lose colossally. He sits in his typical restaurant, ordering his typical order, and looks more broody and contemplative than usual.

His work ends at five on the dot, which means that he reaches home before nightfall. It’s a good thing for him. He seems to be far less lively in the absence of sunlight.

So why isn’t he happier?

Could it be, that in some weird, illogical way, he actually misses coworkers?

“Man,” Kuroo says, hanging over Tsukishima’s shoulder. “What did you do now? He somehow looks worse.”

“Shut up, Kuroo.” The response comes out automatically. “I got rid of the idiot coworkers who kept pissing him off.”

Kuroo tilts his head this way and that, as if moving his neck is going to increase his understanding of a human he barely knows. “But you’ve made him lonely. Look,” he says, nodding towards the screen.

Yamaguchi’s staring into empty space, chewing on his pen absentmindedly. Then he shakes his head, clicking the pen, and gets back to whatever he was working on.

Tsukishima sighs through his nose. Of course, because fate hates him, the surveillance monitor has to show Yamaguchi looking the most depressed he has all day. “I know. I’ll just...find a way to reverse it.”

“Tsukki.” Kuroo’s voice comes out all singsongy. “You can’t play with human emotions like that.”

Affronted, Tsukishima turns his head to make eye contact with Kuroo. “What do you mean?” he asks. “It’s not rocket science. Yamaguchi,” he says, pointing towards his monitor with his chin, “needs a balance of normality and stupidity. I’ll find a way to make that happen.”

Kuroo smirks. “You hate his coworkers a lot.” 

“Because they’re morons. And he has to deal with them all day.” 

“Oh!” Kuroo exclaims, poking Tsukishima’s head with a pen he’s apparently been holding this entire time. “Is that human emotion you’re experiencing?” He leans in, a shiteating smile on his face. “Are you finally _empathizing?”_

Tsukishima moves away on instinct, his eyes narrowing into an all too familiar glare. He’s going to get wrinkles ten years early. “Get out, Kuroo.” 

Kuroo, despite looking stupid, is still able to catch onto the tone in Tsukishima’s voice. He’s out the door before Tsukishima can open his mouth again, yelling, “Remember my advice!” as he goes.

Tsukishima waits for the door to slam before snorting. “What advice?” he mutters, turning himself back to the monitor.

Yamaguchi’s still there, and he’s zoned out again. This time, he’s focused on the corner of his desk, and his brow is furrowed as he thinks. 

_Balance normality with stupidity._ Tsukishima can do that. He just needs to find a way to get Yamaguchi’s coworkers under his care again, but still keep them occupied during most of the day. 

The two coworkers, despite seeming utterly incompetent, are actually incredibly skilled. They would be picked up by other mentors if they weren’t juniors. 

But if they’re already being mentored, why not throw other mentors into the mix? Yamaguchi could have his position of mentoring back, but wouldn’t need to see them constantly.

Tsukishima sees this as perfectly balanced. The intellectual monsters of Karasuno Electronics, also known as Yamaguchi’s juniors, will advance even more. Yamaguchi will get rid of his loneliness and his annoyance at their constant presence. 

He eyes the company’s itinerary of senior engineers, pondering over who he’ll assign them to. 

* * *

“We’re back!” Hinata yells out, right when Yamaguchi has entered their office.

Instantly, Yamaguchi notices that there’s one thing off: Hinata’s on time for once. If he leans a little, he sees Kageyama also sitting at his desk, looking just as broody as ever.

Yamaguchi shrugs off his coat. “...Aren’t you always here?” He asks, slightly hesitant. He looks up at the clock. He’s not late at all, by his standards - nine in the morning is when he should show up.

But nine in the morning is when Hinata and Kageyama run off to Sugawara. _Oh._

Hinata interrupting Yamaguchi’s thoughts, saying, “Yeah, but basically, Sugawara-san told us that the higher ups are being weird these days - actually, he told me not to tell anyone he said that, but maybe he was joking? Anyways-” 

Kageyama’s turned his body to stare at the two of them. Of course, when Hinata starts something, he always needs to get a word in. “He said _fickle,_ Hinata.”

Hinata flaps a hand in his direction. He’s already so fired up that Yamaguchi would feel bad if he attempted to stop him. “Right. Fickle. Anyways, we’re being assigned back to you.” 

Before Yamaguchi can blink, Hinata’s right in front of him. His eyes are hopeful and intense. “So you’ll be mentoring us, and so will some other people!” he finishes, looking proud of himself for his speech. 

“Other people?” Yamaguchi asks, before he can stop himself. Why would Hinata and Kageyama get extra mentorship? Surely, if his own mentoring was so terrible, he would be removed from the job completely. 

Hinata gives him a small grin. “Apparently-”

Kageyama interrupts again. “According to Daichi.”

“We get extra mentorship for all the advanced stuff,” Hinata continues. “I’m going for fuel cell development. Kageyama’s there for polymers.”

Fuel cell development? Polymers? _Extra mentorship?_ Yamaguchi’s been working at Karasuno Electronics for almost a year, and he still hasn’t gotten any extra mentorship yet. 

His juniors, who he’s still mentoring because they barely know the mechanics of the company, are getting advanced help from seniors. In an instant, Hinata’s gleeful aura sours his mood instead of placating it. 

“That’s-” he says, and the envious part of him doesn’t want to congratulate them, but he pushes on anyways. “That’s great. So you’re starting today?”

Kageyama grunts. “In the afternoon.”

If Yamaguchi wasn’t so caught up on his juniors usurping him, he would be relieved. 

“Could you look over my drawings?” Hinata asks, slightly jumping on the spot. His voice breaks through all of Yamaguchi’s thoughts, preventing him from delving into them any further. 

Yamaguchi pushes down any growing jealousy. “Sure.” He makes his way to his desk with Hinata in tow.

“I spent a decent amount of time making them look nice.” Hinata’s rocking on his toes now. 

Yamaguchi sits down and tries for a half grin. He hopes it works. “Alright. Hand them over, then.”

A sheaf of papers gets stuffed into his hands. He squints at the squiggly black lines, which seem to be temperature controllers, heaters and energy sources all at once. Immediately giving up at that section, he tries somewhere else, where he can barely make out cylinders.

“Is that…” he blinks as subtly as he can. “A double-acting cylinder, or a single-acting cylinder?”

Hinata peers over him, still on his toes. “It’s a double-acting cylinder,” he confirms, easily making sense of his own notes.

Yamaguchi sighs. His shoulders feel significantly heavier than when he walked through the door. “Then why is it written like it’s a single-acting cylinder?”

“It is?” Hinata asks, sounding incredulous.

“There’s another arrow for a double-acting cylinder. Y’know, like the name suggests.” 

Hinata raises his eyebrows in realization, taking all the papers back. “Alright,” he says, starting to madly scribble over everything on the pages. “Give me a sec.”

It’s the third time Yamaguchi has told him. He’s probably going to forget again by tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all!! as a person who almost exclusively does oneshots(and has been for the past four years), the fact that i'm actually writing a multichap is insane. 
> 
> i've been doing hardcore plot planning. it's different from the usual way i write, which is to write with literally no plot at all and just let my mind take me wherever. 
> 
> (comments and kudos are always appreciated!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima makes a realization, and so does Yamaguchi.

“Nothing’s working.” 

For once, Tsukishima’s out of his office and in the break room. He pokes at his lunch, which he bought from the cafeteria, and will most definitely not finish. 

Kuroo puts his head in his hand. “What do you mean? Did you follow all the steps?” 

Tsukishima stares hatefully at his salad. “No. But I’ve followed most of them, and nothing’s working so far.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo says, stabbing his food with a fork. “You’ve followed _most_ of them. Can’t give up just yet, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima sets his fork down. His appetite is unsurprisingly gone at the mention of work. “If you say so, Kuroo,” he shoots back as politely as he can.

A silence settles over them. The sound of other employees chattering fills the air, and Tsukishima stares back down at his food, contemplating whether he should finish it or not.

“What’s he upset about now?” Kuroo asks, causing Tsukishima’s head to snap up.

Tsukishima pushes his glasses up. “He thinks he’s being surpassed.”

Kuroo raises his eyebrows. “How so?”

“His juniors are getting advanced training earlier than him.” 

“Well,” Kuroo says, “that sounds like he’s being surpassed.”

Tsukishima feels defiance flare up in him. “It was going to happen anyway.” The words come out before can stop them. “His coworkers are monsters who do more work than their seniors.”

Kuroo sighs. “I mean,” he reasons, waving his fork in the air, “if it was meant to be, you’re just making fate happen early. Which also means you haven’t done any wish granting yet.”

Tsukishima frowns now, outlining the edge of his plate with his finger. “Which means I’ve failed.”

Shrugging, Kuroo stabs another piece of food with his fork. “Onto the next step, then.” 

* * *

_3\. Find the hobbies or pastimes of the project. Encourage engagement._

Yamaguchi doesn’t seem to have any hobbies. Tsukishima knows a disturbing amount of his schedule after examining it for weeks; he gets up and goes to work, does a frankly excessive amount of overtime, and comes home so late he goes to sleep immediately.

He doesn’t have time to spare. Since he’s a junior engineer in a famous tech company, it makes sense for him to work so hard. The extra lengths to which he goes, however, is something Tsukishima can’t make sense of. 

Currently, Yamaguchi is making his way back from another work day. He takes his usual route, but he does one thing different: he takes the wrong intersection. 

Tsukishima knows it’s sadistic, but his interest is immediately piqued. He leans forward in his chair. How’s Yamaguchi going to react to this? Is his sense of direction just as bad as his clumsiness?

Yamaguchi figures out another route in a matter of seconds. Tsukishima sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair. The fact that he got invested so quickly, over something so incredibly minute, makes his brow furrow. 

His eyes skate over Yamaguchi’s walking form, which occasionally shifts to observe the new surroundings.

He knows everything about his gait. Yamaguchi walks quickly, his shoulders slightly hunched. It seems as though he’s constantly apologizing for something. 

In this current situation, his back remains straight, his steps steady and slow.

Resting his head in his hand, Tsukishima watches the monitor idly. Yamaguchi’s going to make it home normally, he figures, and continue his unhealthy habits of barely eating and sleeping at unholy hours.

The CCTV camera switches off, turning the monitor into a black screen. Tsukishima huffs in annoyance, shifting in his seat to figure out when the next one will come on. Stupid old technology. 

_Of course,_ he mentally rants, _the government will give millions of dollars to wish granting, but won’t even fix tech from decades ago._

Before he can blink, the monitor’s restored. The location of the camera is supposed to be near the volleyball courts.

When he goes back to the video footage, he finds Yamaguchi standing still, staring at an empty court.

How odd. Tsukishima zooms in, balancing his chin on his other hand. His eyes sting because it’s ass o’clock at night, but he blinks it away furiously. Something different has happened. 

Yamaguchi has broken his routine. And from the way he stands, so transfixed that he has to shake himself out of it, he likes volleyball.

Tsukishima shuts off his monitor, relishing in the satisfying click it makes. His eyes are so maladjusted to darkness that he can barely see anything. Everyone’s gone from the office, so he’s all alone, moving idly in his chair.

He’s found a breakthrough. When he packs his things away, he makes sure to write a little note to himself for the morning. 

* * *

Yamaguchi takes the new route every night. It’s longer by half an hour, but despite his hellish schedule, he stops by the volleyball court each time. One time he even peered over the lock, as if to check whether it was open.

Considering how invested he looks, Tsukishima figures he played volleyball in the past. A quick scan of his high school records proves this to be true: he was a pinch server, although not particularly successful, and only played in a handful of games.

Why the sudden interest? If Yamaguchi wasn’t even good, why is he still enamoured by volleyball?

A memory pushes its way through Tsukishima’s thoughts. He dabbled in volleyball too, when he was young and had nothing better to do. Now that he’s older and doing far more useful things, it’s no surprise that he’s given up on it. 

Something about the way Yamaguchi looks at the court - in a wistful, spellbound way - almost makes him second guess himself. Almost.

Tsukishima pushes up his glasses, and the thought disappears. The list of neighbourhood volleyball associations on his monitor, which were formerly out of focus, become clearer. 

He ups their advertising budget a decent amount. Luckily for him, they have a habit of plastering their posters all over Yamaguchi’s neighbourhood and commuting route.

* * *

There’s posters everywhere. As Yamaguchi leaves his house, boards the subway, and makes his way to Karasuno electronics, he sees volleyball infographics displayed on each public bulletin. 

_Must be some sports festival,_ he reasons, sitting in the softly swaying carriage of the subway. He squints slightly to make out the words of the ad in front of him: _The Miyagi District Volleyball Team welcomes you! Call the following number to -_

The subway screeches as it goes around a sharp turn, causing his arm to reach out to the nearest pole. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, to the woman in front of him. His eyes turn back to the ad, which is now covered by a man standing in front of it. 

He sighs. There’s no way he can see the number from any angle, and his stop is coming up soon. 

_I haven’t practiced in a while,_ he starts to reason, as if that’ll justify staying at home and playing video games until midnight. _And anyways, I’m probably not good -_

There’s a pile of posters in a paper carrier across the carriage. Abandoning his common sense, he leans across the aisle, grabbing one before someone can walk through.

It wasn’t wise of him to do that. Theoretically, he could have hit an old lady in the face with his hand, or crashed into the person next to him.

But he didn’t. In his hands, the paper crumples and distorts from how tightly he grips it. 

* * *

“What’s that on your desk?” Hinata asks, looking up from his engineering drawings on Yamaguchi’s desk. 

Yamaguchi looks over, only to find the poster he picked up. “Oh,” he says, distractedly going between the poster and Hinata’s drawings(which are, of course, full of mistakes). “It’s for a neighbourhood volleyball team.”

Hinata’s eyes are bright and energetic almost instantly. “You play _volleyball?”_ he asks, brimming with excitement. His voice steadily increases in volume, which bodes badly for the neighbouring offices.

“Well,” Yamaguchi says, scratching his neck awkwardly. “It was in high school. I was a pinch server.”

“A _pinch server?”_ Hinata exclaims. “That’s so cool! I was a middle blocker, you know, because-” 

“You can jump really high,” Yamaguchi finishes, in an effort to quell Hinata’s growing volume. Hinata, as expected of his personality, had told him this the moment they met. “Right?”

The affirmation makes a smug look come on Hinata’s face. “Yeah. Three-three-three centimeters.”

“Bullshit.” Kageyama’s desk is pristine and organized. He knocks over a pencil holder when he turns around to face Hinata. “There’s no way.”

“There’s definitely a way!” Hinata parries back. He’s already getting red in the face. Yamaguchi adds volleyball to his expanding list of topics he should never mention around them. “Wanna see? I can do it right now. I bet it’s higher than yours.” 

Now it’s Kageyama’s turn to look smug, and Yamaguchi’s turn to look more wary. “Mine is three-three-seven.” If Kageyama wasn’t so emotionally constipated, he would most definitely have a gloating smile on his face. 

Hinata’s mouth is agape until he snaps it shut. “No way.”

“Yes way.” Kageyama, despite seeming more mature and composed than the two of them, is just as unhinged. “I bet you were benched the whole time.”

“I just told you my jumping reach. How could I be-” Hinata’s indignation is practically radiating off of him. Yamaguchi almost feels bad. 

“I’m sure Hinata wasn’t benched,” Yamaguchi interrupts, making sure to place himself in between the two. He’s learned that they’re both prone to physically fighting, and while that’s somewhat impressive - how Hinata manages to take on all 180 centimetres of Kageyama, Yamaguchi will never find out - it’s most definitely against company policy. 

Or perhaps all policies, Yamaguchi mentally redacts, eyes flickering between the two. “And,” he continues, making Kageyama’s glare break for just a second. “I’m sure you both played well. How long did you guys play for?” 

The tense mood dissipates almost immediately. Yamaguchi’s shoulders lighten when Hinata turns toward him, responding cheerfully with, “Throughout college! Although I still want to play.”

“Same.” Kageyama’s frown is back to its normal state. 

Hinata looks back at the poster on Yamaguchi’s desk. “What’s that for, then? Are they looking for new players?”

“Uh,” Yamaguchi says, thinking fast. “I guess.”

Hinata’s lips are curved into a determined little smile. “Can I join?”

Kageyama still hasn’t turned around. He hasn’t even fixed his desk either. “Me too.”

Yamaguchi takes the poster and attempts to straighten it out. “Here,” he says, after it’s slightly smoother. “There’s a number on there. Both of you can call it.”

“But what about you?” Hinata asks, eyes not leaving the poster the moment it reaches his hands.

Shit. Yamaguchi, as much as he’d like to entertain high school nostalgia, isn’t keen on wrangling his coworkers after work. 

_I haven’t practiced in a while._ The thought he had on the subway comes back to him. It’s technically correct - he hasn’t practiced since he left high school, or since he attempted to try out for his college team. 

Maybe he’ll join when he’s better. In the back of his mind, he knows he has no intention of following through with that promise. Still, he deludes himself anyways, and decides to come up with a quick lie on the spot:

“I think these are old fliers.”

Hinata’s face drops. _Shit._ “But,” Yamaguchi continues, before Hinata can open his mouth, “I found it in the subway. If you try out the number, you’ll probably find a position.”

After knowing Hinata for a decent amount of time, Yamaguchi can see the cogs running his mind. _Then why don’t you try?_ Is probably what he’s going to ask.

“I’m too busy, anyways,” Yamaguchi adds on hastily.

Hinata seems to take the bait. “Alright, Yamaguchi. If you say so.”

 _If you say so._ It doesn’t mean much, both literally and figuratively, but Yamaguchi realizes that it’s ultimately his fault he’s not doing what he wants.

Is he about to delve into that, in this current moment and time? No. He might never. Amongst Hinata saying, “Oi, Kageyama, take a picture of this poster,” it buzzes in the back of his mind.

His fault. He controls everything in his life. He only has himself to blame.

“Your photography skills suck,” Hinata says, snickering behind his hands. “Can you even make out the number in that?” 

“What do you mean? It’s just a poster, dumbass.”

The hints of another fight rips Yamaguchi out of his thoughts, albeit only partially.

* * *

“Tch.” Tsukishima watches Yamaguchi hand over the poster. The defeat of another attempt, despite his best efforts to ignore it, is beginning to make his shoulders sag. 

Yamaguchi is dispelling yet another argument, where his coworkers are now fighting over a phone. ( _Idiots,_ Tsukishima thinks). He’s a good mediator. The angry looking junior’s face crumples into calmness immediately, and the red headed one has gone back to sitting primly in his seat.

How can you help someone who refuses it? Tsukishima ponders over this as he watches Yamaguchi take out his own phone, looking exasperated. 

He turns on the audio. It’s garbage quality, of course, but he can make out phrases.

“I’ll take the photograph,” Yamaguchi says, “And I’ll send it to both of you. Alright?”

Tsukishima watches both the juniors nod in agreement. Yamaguchi orchestrates their idiocy perfectly, like a force of mitigation even they seem to bow to. 

A bald coworker enters the room. Tsukishima decides to minimize the screen, but not before watching Yamaguchi’s shoulders tense up again.

_Maybe he needs some time alone._

The revelation strikes through him. Yamaguchi, for the vast majority of the day, is never alone. When he goes to his favourite restaurant to eat, he sits by himself. When he walks home, he makes sure to take the sidewalk that looks the most empty.

Tsukishima would bemoan his lack of awareness, but instead, he finds out the management times of the volleyball courts. 

He pushes it far behind the time Yamaguchi makes it there. If he’s lucky, Tsukishima figures, he’ll find spare balls and equipment lying around.

Maybe he’ll even try playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the comments left on this fic are so heartwarming!! i just wanted to thank u all for the love you've shown on the last two chapters. tbh, i don't care if this fic flops in terms of kudos. as long as i have a few sweet comments per chapter, i'm all set. that being said, another thank u to anyone who took time out of their day to read this. (especially to those who decided to stick with it so far?? what?? that's so cool of u)
> 
> side note: i have 5 wips and i'm dying. one of them has buff!yamaguchi, bc lord knows we need more of those.
> 
> (also: i like the next two chapters after this one. really looking forward to posting those)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamaguchi refuses to be happy. Tsukishima’s sacrificed countless hours slaving over this freckly, self destructively determined human, and none of his efforts have reaped anything.
> 
> Maybe there’s something wrong with Yamaguchi. Tsukishima’s sure his skills are impeccable, polished and gleaming from the hundreds of cases he’s worked on, so the fault can’t be his.
> 
> Maybe it’s his rotten luck for getting stuck with Yamaguchi in the first place.

When Yamaguchi walks past the volleyball courts, he notices that the door hangs loosely on its hinge. Balls are strewn about the court. Their cart lays abandoned by the side, evidently empty. 

Messy. He turns this way and that. It looks like the maintenance worker didn’t come by tonight, so he figures he’ll wait until something happens.

The balls tempt him through the fence. It would be so easy, he knows, to walk right past the doors. Maybe he could even put the balls back in their place.

Maybe he could practice a serve, like he used to in the past. The thought is something he entertains for a second before getting rid of. 

_Ridiculous._ He moves so he stands near the door. _I’m out of practice, anyways,_ he thinks, and the thought weighs down on his shoulders like a lead block. That’s right. He’s so rusty that he shouldn’t even bother.

Even though the court is completely empty, there’s no one around to watch him, and he’s completely alone at this time of night.

His phone buzzes suddenly. He winces, bringing it out and blinking at the glare of the light. It’s a subscription email service he signed up for, so he huffs, stuffing it back in his pocket.

The time reads half an hour past eleven. According to his estimation, it’s been around twenty minutes since he’s dawdled his time away.

“No other choice,” he mumbles, opening the fenced door. There are actually many other choices he could take. He could go home and catch more sleep, for one. 

The potential of more rest looms over his head as he gathers stray volleyballs. He could be eating floppy fries right now, he bemoans, stuffing them all into their wire cart. As he wheels it back inside the storage building, he wonders if he could be sleeping.

No matter. He’s already put away the balls, and his hands move to take the net down. No stopping himself now, he reasons, when he could very well drop everything and leave.

The court is spotless when he leaves it. The maintenance person will have nothing to clean. For some reason, the thought of doing someone else’s job leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Why is he wasting his time? It must be twelve now, he figures, as he closes the fenced door as best he can.

He even tries to lock it from the outside, and naturally fails. It occurs to him that he’s trying so hard for something that, all things considered, doesn’t matter at all.

* * *

“What’re you pondering over?” Kuroo asks, because Tsukishima’s been at his desk so long he’s skipped lunch. “Your project?”

Tsukishima hums in agreement. He’s pored over everything volleyball related in Yamaguchi’s history. None of it proved to be useful. “He likes volleyball.”

Kuroo’s eyebrows raise. “Oh,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised, “really? I was a captain, you know. And a middle blocker.”

Tsukishima allows himself to snort. “I know.”

“Anyways,” Kuroo replies, easily skating over Tsukishima’s snark, “I brought lunch.” He pushes a package over to him. 

Not even bothering to cast it a glance, Tsukishima waves his hand. “I won’t eat it.”

“It’s strawberry shortcake.”

Tsukishima breaks his streak of staring at the monitor, and brings the package towards him with his hand. “That’s not lunch.”

Kuroo brings a chair from what seems like nowhere, sidling beside him. “Anything can be lunch if you want it to be,” he shoots back. “What’s bothering you?”

From the logo, Kuroo’s gotten him shortcake from a good bakery. Tsukishima opens the package. The address on the inside is decently far away; Kuroo must have taken the subway to get there. He fights back a little smile from appearing on his face.

The mention of his project, however, makes it die instantly. “I left him posters everywhere,” Tsukishima says, taking the fork out of its plastic casing. The sight of the shortcake, in all its glory, raises his spirits slightly. “But he didn’t join any of the teams.”

Kuroo hums from beside him, urging him to continue.

“So I left the volleyball court near him open.” Tsukishima spears himself a bite. The pastry is exceptionally flaky. “And he walks there at night, every single day, if you can believe it.” 

“And he walked past it?” Kuroo completes.

“No,” Tsukishima corrects, and Kuroo’s face looks confused. “He put everything away, and then he left.”

Kuroo barks out a laugh. “Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “At least he didn’t steal anything.”

Tsukishima snorts. “Who would steal a couple of volleyballs?”

Kuroo opens his mouth, probably to go on about the supposed worth of volleyballs, but Tsukishima interrupts him again.

“He’s not even satisfied by his hobbies.” The remark comes out scathing, and far more spiteful than he thought it would.

Yamaguchi refuses to be happy. Tsukishima’s sacrificed countless hours slaving over this freckly, self destructively determined human, and none of his efforts have reaped anything.

Maybe there’s something wrong with Yamaguchi. Tsukishima’s sure his skills are impeccable, polished and gleaming from the hundreds of cases he’s worked on, so the fault can’t be his.

Maybe it’s his rotten luck for getting stuck with Yamaguchi in the first place.

“What made you think Yamaguchi likes volleyball, anyway?” Kuroo asks.

If there’s one thing Tsukishima appreciates about Kuroo, it’s that he can read the mood exceptionally well. Anyone else’s platitudes would have grated at his nerves. 

“He…” he begins, watching the whipped cream get more and more congested with pastry crumbs. “One time, when he was walking past the courts, he stopped to stare at them.”

Kuroo steeples his hands. “Couldn’t anyone do that, though?”

Tsukishima’s eyes narrow. He knows what Kuroo’s trying to do, but he can’t bring himself to deflect it. “He looked wistful,” Tsukishima snaps, and the word “wistful” evokes a bitter feeling in him. “He looked like he wanted to play again.”

Kuroo leans back in his chair. Tsukishima takes the opportunity to finally eat his bite. Of course, it’s delicious. “You said it yourself.”

Tsukishima swallows his bite quickly. “Said what?”

“That he wants to play again,” Kuroo answers seamlessly. 

“But if he wants to play,” Tsukshima says, angrily stabbing another piece of shortcake. This time, he makes sure to snag a strawberry. “Why hasn’t he done that yet?”

Kuroo shrugs. “I don’t know a lot about your case,” he says, “but he seems afraid to me.” 

Tsukishima remembers how Yamaguchi had given his coworkers the poster. He snorts, replying with, “You could say that.”

“Then why not give him time?” Kuroo asks. He looks Tsukishima directly in the eyes. “He’s afraid, but he clearly wants to play.”

The whipped cream turns sour in Tsukishima’s mouth. “But I’ve already given him so much.”

“Tsukishima,” Kuroo sighs out, and he sounds genuinely exasperated. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Tsukishima pokes at the pastry with his fork. He knew what Kuroo meant. It’s just that his neck is strained for sitting too long, and his eyes sting when he blinks because he stays up too late. 

It could be something else, too - like the way Yamaguchi’s face reverts into a morose, dull expression when he’s not forcing himself to be happy. Or the way he walks the same route each night, and deprives himself of any further enjoyment in his life.

Either way, Tsukishima sits in the silence, eating his shortcake. To his surprise, Kuroo’s not too bad to simply sit with. 

“Thanks for the food,” Tsukishima says, flipping the box lid closed. Now that he thinks about it, the shortcake must have been expensive. He hates being in debt. He’s going to need to find a way to make up to Kuroo.

Kuroo’s put the chair back from wherever it came from. “No problem.” He almost makes his way through the door until he shoves his face back in. “Remember, Tsukishima,” he adds on, his face contorted into an oddly concerned look, “he’s afraid.”

Tsukishima blinks at him. “Right,” he replies, politely nodding.

The door closes quietly.

Belatedly, Tsukishima realizes that Kuroo hadn’t called him Tsukki once.

* * *

Tsukishima is nothing if not determined. If Yamaguchi needs time, so be it. He’ll be sitting at his desk, eyeing his monitor like a hawk and drafting other strategies, but he’ll wait.

It takes a week and half for Yamaguchi’s self imposed restraint to crumple. Tsukishima’s not sure what it is about him, but he seems more defeated today. As he walks past his favourite restaurant, his eyes remained trained on the ground in front of it. 

He doesn’t check his phone when it inevitably goes off. Instead, he takes it out and shuts it off completely.

 _Today’s probably going to be another dud,_ Tsukishima thinks, and he feels his body getting weary already. Yamaguchi will presumably go home as usual. Judging by how stressed he looks, he’ll most likely stay up late playing video games.

Just when he’s about to mentally chide Yamaguchi’s habits, the courts come up.

He braces himself for the inevitable wistful glance, and then nothing. Today’s Yamaguchi is more gutsy, though. He stands in front of the court for longer than usual.

Tsukishima taps his fingers impatiently on his desk. Yamaguchi opens the door hesitantly, but after passing by so many times and seeing no one, he lets it clang behind him confidently.

There’s resolve in his eyes as he makes his way towards the strewn balls. As he leans down to pick one up, there’s a strangely characteristic determination in the way he carries himself.

Tsukishima watches it with bated breath. _Why hasn’t Yamaguchi done this earlier?_ He wonders subconsciously, because his current thoughts are far too occupied by the way Yamaguchi holds the ball.

Yamaguchi steps behind the end line. He looks frustrated, spent, and put at his wits end, and he channels all of that in the way he throws the ball upwards.

For some reason, Tsukishima wishes he could see this in person. Yamaguchi has revolved between several emotions since he was assigned to him - occasional forced happiness, dull acceptance, and placation. The way the dark court makes him look is almost terrifying. 

_Domineering,_ Tsukishima corrects. _Powerful._

Yamaguchi hits the ball perfectly. It seems to be out, and by the way he stands stiffly, he probably thinks as much. 

It wobbles in the air before landing just inside the court. A perfect jump float.

 _Pinch server,_ Tsukishima’s mind tells him, and he wills it to shut up. _Average player. A good teammate._

“Good teammate” is definitely true, given how much Tsukishima’s seen Yamaguchi with his coworkers. But an _average player?_ He wants to scoff. All of the sudden, his thoughts send him into some wild frenzy: he imagines telling off everyone who called Yamaguchi average.

Before admonishing himself for the ridiculous thought, he looks closely at Yamaguchi’s face on the monitor.

It’s hard to make out, but with the amount of experience Tsukishima has staring at these things, he can see a grin.

Not exactly a grin, but a gentle curving of the lips. Enough that Yamaguchi’s freckles distort around his cheeks, his face easing into smoothness, and his shoulders relaxing as if releasing all of his worries. 

Happiness. Tsukishima can’t say he remembers what that feels like. It’s been a long time since he was a child and got easily swayed by desserts and dinosaurs, but looking at Yamaguchi, his body reacts in the same way. He almost wants to smile back.

Yamaguchi retrieves another ball. He does another serve, and it lands the exact same way as the last. He stands there in uncertainty. Tsukishima can see him double checking whether it went inside the court or not.

It did. Yamaguchi tries another one and gets it in. Then another, which is also perfect. The fifth one makes it slightly past the line, but his shoulders don’t sag as they usually do when he loses.

His back is as straight as a rod, Tsukishima notes, as he retrieves another ball.

Yamaguchi practices until his serves get sloppy. He puts everything back into its original place in the end, like the upstanding citizen he is, and makes his way back home.

There’s a slight spring in his step. 

“Jackpot,” Tsukishima mutters to himself, in the empty room and the most likely empty building. If his lips turn up ever so slightly, he doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s late anyways. His mental guard is next to nothing. 

If all bodes well, he thinks, recalling the exact smile Yamaguchi had on his face, this case should be finished soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! this chapter isn't as well edited because i'm doing this hella late. i'm currently working on pieces for tsukkiyama week + other wips, and i'm kind of drowning in writing.
> 
> technically, i have 5 other tskym fics that have yet to be published. then i have 4 other ones from bnha, and including this fic, i have 10 wips......which basically means i'm dying lol. (and i have another plot bunny frolicking in my mind, so 11 wips?????) pray 4 me.
> 
> anyways, i mention shortcake so much in this fic that i got hungry reading my drafts and made some. it's really good. tsukishima has good taste(or maybe i have a sweet tooth as bad as his).
> 
> (another thing i'll ramble about: there seems to be a difference between Japanese strawberry shortcake and Western shortcake that i didn't know. in this fic, i'm talking specifically about Western shortcake lmao.)
> 
> comments and kudos make my day! also, feel free to hmu up on twitter as i'm more active there. ty for reading, stay safe, and i'll see u in the next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamaguchi makes a realization, and unbeknownst to him, Tsukishima bears the result of it.

“No, I’m telling you -” Hinata persuades, his hands gesturing madly, “Sakanoshita’s are better. You just have bad taste.” 

“My taste isn’t bad!” Kageyama exclaims. He looks awfully passionate over their argument, which is where to get the best meat buns. 

Yamaguchi tunes everything out, scoring and checking both of their designs. Hinata’s shows an improvement, to his great surprise. Kageyama’s is as perfect and pristine as always.

Hinata crows over something Kageyama says. Kageyama’s face turns redder than an apple, and although Yamaguchi can’t see his face, he can imagine it seizing up.

“Dumbass,” Kageyama splutters out. “You can’t just say that to people.” 

“What do you mean?” Hinata replies indignantly. “I can say whatever I want. And I meant what I said, by the way.”

Kageyama stares at his hands. “Th -” he starts to say. He’s clearly struggling; Yamaguchi feels a bit bad for him. “Thanks.” 

The way he stumbles over his words should make Hinata jeer at him. _You don’t know how to thank people?_ Is what Hinata would probably say. 

At this moment, however, Hinata’s lips curve into a bashful smile. “No problemo, Kageyama,” he responds easily. He looks accomplished at how much of a mess he’s turned Kageyama into.

“What about you, Yamaguchi?” Hinata asks, and Kageyama stops shuffling around in his chair so much.

Yamaguchi tries his best to stifle the beginnings of a smirk. “What about me?” he asks back, lifting his head up from the papers on his desk. Hinata’s face is still jubilant from before.

Hinata’s eyes take on an odd sense of determination. “Why’d you join mechatronics?”

Yamaguchi’s pencil slips from his hand. “I just like it, I guess,” he answers easily, propping his pencil back in his hand. It’s the first reply he can think of saying. “What about you?”

Luckily, Hinata is all too happy to talk about himself. “I saw the little giant,” he begins excitedly, “when I was coming home from school one day. His story had come on the news.” He stops and stares expectantly at Yamaguchi, as if he’s waiting for an affirmation to carry on.

 _That’s impressive,_ Yamaguchi notes. Who trained Hinata to work around his tendency to verbally dump? “And?” he prompts.

Hinata fidgets on his seat as if his words are holding him captive. “And it was so cool!” he finishes. “He was just like me. He had to bike over a mountain and everything. And sometimes his power went out when he studied, or he had to take care of his younger siblings, or…” he trails off, ending mid sentence.

Yamaguchi hums in response. That causes Hinata to break out of his reverie, and he continues to talk.

“But anyways,” Hinata digresses, “when I saw how successful he became, I wanted to achieve that too.” His eyes focus eerily. “If he had that much passion,” he reasons, tilting his head slightly, “I could have that much passion too, right?”

For some reason, Yamaguchi feels his throat tighten. “Passion,” he repeats weakly. “Yeah. You could.”

“Hinata,” Kageyama interrupts, jabbing his finger into a page he holds up. “Tell me what you wrote here. I can’t read it because your handwriting is shit.”

“Kageyama!” Hinata yells, wheeling around in his chair aggressively. “My handwriting is _not_ shit! You just have bad eyes!” 

Oddly enough, Yamaguchi finds himself unable to return back to work.

* * *

Work wasn’t objectively bad. It was better than most days, actually, but Yamaguchi finds his shoulders heavier all the same. 

The walk towards his apartment is taking longer than usual. It rained earlier, so the air is muggy and heavy. His lungs feel like they’re inhaling cotton.

 _Passion,_ Yamaguchi allows himself to think, after a day of avoiding the thought of it. 

Passion brings up his university days. Back then, all he did was stay up extremely late, poring over textbooks and past exams. His lifespan is probably shortened from the amount of caffeine he consumed.

He worked hard. Shouldn’t that count as passion? Shouldn’t that make his job and his entire occupation worth it?

Hinata’s statement rings through his mind: _If he had that much passion, I could have that much passion too, right?_

Yamaguchi busies himself by looking at the cracks on the sidewalk. He doesn’t have passion. At some point in the past, he might have had it. Maybe when he was fresh out of middle school, where he memorized as many facts from science magazines as he could. Maybe it was when he was a university student pulling another all-nighter.

Maybe it was when he wasn’t focusing on the only goal his life revolved around - his career. 

Passionate moments, as he tries to recall them, are few and far between. They all take place on a volleyball court. Despite being average at serving, and being unremarkable in every other aspect, he practiced tirelessly. 

Volleyball was the only thing disturbing the monotony that was his life. He couldn’t study if he was busy practicing his jump floats. He couldn’t fret over entrance salaries and grades if he was playing a game.

Now, though, there’s nothing. Besides the blip that was last night, his life is as stagnant as it was when he was an adolescent.

Part of him wants to show off his situation to his past self. _Take a gander,_ he wants to say, gesturing towards his full bank account and his terrible work schedule, his volatile coworkers and their irritating habits, and his lingering need to stay consistently unsatisfied, _at what your efforts have reaped._

He’s still the same after all these goddamn years. Still waiting for happiness that he hasn’t achieved yet. Still treating his life as if it’s a continued process of delayed gratification.

 _I’ll be happier in the future,_ he used to think, as he crammed tirelessly. 

The thought makes something acidic churn in his stomach. It’s the future now, he confirms, standing amidst all the opportunities he dreamed of as a child. It’s the future, and yet, it doesn’t feel like it at all. 

Unbeknownst to him, he makes his way to the crossroad between his regular route and the new route.

His shoulders sag. He hefts up his bag. No use in entertaining an old notion, he figures, fingers twitching for something other than writing with pens or typing on keyboards.

No use in returning to an old passion when he has no passion left. 

He takes his regular route. The balls must be strewn everywhere, and he feels horrible about leaving behind a mess.

But he can’t bring himself to go back to the court. 

* * *

Yamaguchi’s face drops in the morning, and from then on, it stays that way the whole day.

Tsukishima can’t pick up much from the audio, but he thinks he hears the word “passion”. The red headed coworker mouths it several times, his arms waving about frantically, and even the darker haired one joins in.

Yamaguchi observes the conversation politely. He says one sentence with the word “passion” in it, and spends the rest of the time urging Hinata on.

Eventually, the end of the day arrives. Tsukishima, to his own embarrassment, is at the edge of his seat. Yamaguchi’s going to serve again. He’s going to smile again. He’s going to rediscover whatever happiness was hiding in his life, and all will be well.

Yamaguchi takes his regular route home. He does so after deliberating the choice thoroughly, standing at the crossroad, staring fixedly at a spot on the ground. 

Tsukishima wills himself to avoid looking at the clock. His brain can’t work this late at night, but he takes off his glasses to pinch his nose bridge. The pain makes his eyes open sharply.

 _Coworkers were acting normally,_ he mentally checks off, as he stares at Yamaguchi’s retreating form. _No excessive communication. No social slip ups._

All things considered, it was a good day. Yamaguchi’s coworkers reeled themselves in more than usual. He didn’t have to interact with the people he doesn’t particularly like. He didn’t even have to visit his manager, who he’s intimidated by. 

_A perfect day._ The thought rings through Tsukishima’s mind clearly. A seemingly perfect day, and Yamaguchi managed to think all the wrong things and make it arguably his worst.

He turns his monitor off bitterly. For once, he doesn’t hesitate to blame Yamaguchi for his own sadness. 

Yamaguchi, in all his awkwardness and indecisiveness, is ultimately the cause of his own destruction.

Tsukishima packs his things with resentment. His things clatter around far more loudly than he would tolerate any other day, but he doesn’t care. 

Yamaguchi is a hopeless case - his lack of motivation borders on pathetic. The higher ups seem to have forgotten how illogical their citizens are.

And Tsukishima, the hapless wish granter, is stuck bearing the weight of all of their misfortunes.

It’s childish, but he makes sure to slam the door on his way out.

* * *

_4\. Increase social interaction. Other services, such as therapy, should also be recommended._

Tsukishima scoffs. After months of knowing Yamaguchi, he can immediately tell how ineffective this step will be.

Still, if it’s one thing he prides himself on, it’s the concise and thorough reports he sends to the higher ups. Omitting a step will ruin his spotless record.

Despite his self control, he lets out a sigh. This case is equivalent to pulling teeth; utterly painful and ultimately useless. He used to place some stake on his job, even if it was miniscule. Nowadays, he finds himself fantasizing about leaving his lifestyle entirely.

 _Restaurant,_ his tired mind spits out. He clicks at the restaurant Yamaguchi frequents. Increasing greeters and customer service would also increase social interaction, and in turn, get this over with. 

Fulfilling this step is utterly unsatisfying. There’s nothing fruitful about implementing changes he’ll have to reverse. Every bone in his body wants to do a bang up job of filling out instructions, and then simply sit back. He wills himself into a proper sitting position at the last minute.

His work is of utmost quality, and he should treat it as such. But that’s difficult, he muses, if it will eventually amount to nothing. 

* * *

“How are you doing today?” the greeter asks. She stands right beside the door, looking painfully cheerful.

Yamaguchi stops himself from ducking his head. “Fine,” he replies, sending a warbly smile her way. His eyes flick towards the ground. _Say something else!_ His mind urges, a growing franticness seeping through his body. 

The line moves forwards quickly. He takes the opportunity to move as far ahead as he can.

“The regular?” the cashier at the front asks.

Yamaguchi winces slightly. He’s become a regular, which makes logical sense, but causes him to feel self conscious all the same. “That would be great.”

They seem to have changed the restaurant over the weekend. The interior is bustling more than usual, and chatter fills silence like fog.

He notices something odd: the chef is talking to every customer. In fact, every employee has come out of the woodwork, and the public’s response is ecstatic.

“Hello?” the cashier asks. The total has appeared on the cash register, and he’s beginning to look impatient. “Sir?”

Yamaguchi, to his horror, jumps slightly at the question. His eyes rip from his surroundings, and he replies hastily, “Yes?”

The cashier presses his lips together. “For here, or to go?”

Suddenly, the noise in the room becomes incredibly loud. People press into his space in waves, even though they haven’t moved from their spots.

Yamaguchi gives the cashier a tight smile. “To go.” 

* * *

Naturally, the step is a failure.

Tsukishima steeples his hands together. He knew it wouldn’t work, and after examining Yamaguchi’s personality through and through, he expected it not to. Pursuing other social interaction would end in the same outcome. Yamaguchi would interact hesitantly, and then leave as quickly as he can.

That’s the root of the problem, he figures, imagining a plant’s roots wiggle through dirt. Yamaguchi’s nervousness plagues every aspect of his life. He needs something that will extinguish all of it.

His mind goes back to what the guidelines recommended: therapy.

It’s the last ditch effort to a problem this vague. In a way, it’s really the only way one could become happy. His mouth twists into a frown as he looks through Yamaguchi’s insurance.

Naturally, at a high level company like Karasuno Electronics, their health benefits rival everyone else’s.

 _Time to increase them even more,_ Tsukishima thinks with resignation, pulling up another browser to find other programs.

“Lifegenix - Mental Health, Dental Care and Business Overhead” seems good. His eyes glaze over the terms and benefits until he reaches mental health.

_We provide support for engineers, in and out of district, with increased coverage on -_

Tsukishima hums with boredom. This will suffice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! ty for reading so far. you're all absolute legends and the feedback i get makes me insanely happy. i get hella self conscious/critical about this fic, because it's the first time i've actually written a multichap and not had it flop on its face. 
> 
> next week's chapter is going to be pretty short. the chapters after that are going to be a decent size, so keep on the lookout for those :)) they also happen to contain some of my favourite scenes, and also some other important plot developments you might enjoy.
> 
> have a great day/night! stay safe in these trying times. wear a mask/socially distance/etc/you know the drill.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _79% of engineers experience symptoms of depression. Do you have any of these symptoms?_
> 
> Yamaguchi looks at the poster above the water dispenser. He goes down each of the symptoms, and when he realizes how many apply to him, he forces his eyes downwards.

For the first time in months, Daichi comes into their office in the morning.

“He’s here!” Hinata says, kicking Kageyama’s chair. “Did you do something?”

Kageyama immediately stiffens when Daichi’s form appears in front of them. “Dumbass,” he says lowly, grabbing him by the back of his blazer. “I didn’t do anything. And shut up.”

Yamaguchi winces at the two of them, his eyes flicking back rapidly between Daichi and their squabbling. “Guys,” he hisses, in a tone he tries to make as menacing as possible, “do you really think this is the time to fight?”

Kageyama promptly lets go of Hinata’s blazer, and Hinata droops into his seat like a dropped cat. “Sorry.” His voice is professional and curt, which contrasts how ready he was to incite violence a few seconds before. 

Hinata sits up in his chair and adjusts his blazer, which still looks rumpled. “Sorry, Yamaguchi,” he apologizes. Someone promptly shushes him, and Yamaguchi thinks he’s about to die of embarrassment.

Daichi’s voice breaks through the residual chatter. “Mental health is quite important in the workplace,” he says. His hands are shoved into his pocket, making his barrel chest look more imposing than usual. “There’s been a change in coverage.”

“Change in coverage?” Hinata mumbles.

“Shut up,” Kageyama mutters, and someone shushes him. 

Yamaguchi fixes his eyes to the ground. His leg jiggles in his seat, and he’s already desperately wishing for this briefing to end.

“The mental health of engineers is always our priority,” Daichi continues, looking unaware of Hinata and Kageyama’s comments. “You should be getting an email about your update this evening.”

A hand raises. Daichi nods his head, to which the person asks, “Why’s there been a change in coverage?”

Daichi looks uncharacteristically unsure. He tilts his head in thought, seeming to think of the right words to say. “The higher ups have been gunning for a lot of changes,” he decides on. 

The mention of the higher ups makes other people drop their hands.

“Could you give us an overview of the changes?” someone asks, and his voice sounds awfully familiar.

“Oi,” Kageyama whispers beside Hinata, making aborted motions to draw his hand down. “It’ll be in the email. Why are you asking our boss to do your job?”

Yamaguchi’s body leans towards the two, his mind racing with possible ways to de-escalate this situation. _This is humiliating,_ he thinks, feeling second hand embarrassment course through his veins, _this is terrible, and I can’t even do anything about -_

“Good question.” Daichi’s voice makes his thoughts come to a halt. “More coverage in different districts, for one. There’s also more therapy methods offered,” he continues, his eyes screwing up in thought, “more appointments, and more coverage on medicines. I skimmed it over, but the changes seem good so far.”

“Okay.” Hinata beams from his seat, removing Kageyama’s limp hand from his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Daichi makes a noise of assent. “Anyone else?” He looks around the room, and when he’s sure there’s no other hands, he nods his head. “Right. I’ll be going now.”

“You still want me to put that poster up, chief?” Tanaka asks. Yamaguchi can barely hear his voice, since the volume of the room has increased again.

“What?” Daichi asks, but before Tanaka can go into explanation, he says, “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Tanaka gives him a thumbs up. “Alright.” He goes back to his desk, and Daichi finally exits the room. 

Yamaguchi’s shoulders immediately sag. Daichi makes his nerves go on edge, even though he’s proven to be kind and hardworking.

“More therapy appointments seem cool,” Hinata says, his voice rising back to its usual level. “I might go to one.” 

“But why?” Kageyama asks, frowning. “You don’t need to.”

Hinata raises his eyebrows. “Because they’re free.”

Yamaguchi resists the urge to sigh out loud. Instead, he sighs through his nose, and the pressure from his nasal cavity gathers near his eyes. 

“Show me what you’ve done, Hinata?” he asks, turning to face his desk. He takes his pen in his hand. It’s beginning to decrease in ink already.

Wheeling to his desk, Hinata whips out several sheets. “Here,” he says, scooting towards Yamaguchi. He shoves the sheets under Yamaguchi’s nose.

 _Wow,_ Yamaguchi can’t help but think, taking the sheets from Hinata’s hands, _he got work done?_

A flurry of movement happens in front of him, causing him to lower the sheets.

Tanaka’s tacking a sheet to the bulletin board near the water cooler, looking oddly determined. Yamaguchi shakes his head before he can overanalyze anything, and begins to go over Hinata’s designs.

-

_79% of engineers experience symptoms of depression. Do you have any of these symptoms?_

Yamaguchi looks at the poster above the water dispenser. He goes down each of the symptoms, and when he realizes how many apply to him, he forces his eyes downwards.

“Could this go any slower?” he mutters to himself, wishing for the steady stream of water to hurry up. 

He can’t help but look back at the list. “Persistence of sad, anxious, or empty feelings” stares back at him, and the mention of “empty” makes an odd nervousness roil in his gut. He hasn’t felt empty, he justifies, mulling over every emotion he’s felt in the past 24 hours. 

_How can someone even feel empty?_ He thinks, forcing himself to put on an air of disdain. That’s impossible, even for him.

The rest of the symptoms meld together. Feelings of irritation, restlessness, fatigue, and helplessness blare at his face. Fatigue is due to his work schedule. His irritation is because of his lack of sleep. His restlessness - well, he actually doesn’t have any, because of his fatigue.

Helplessness? He has the most control he’s ever had in his life. Surely, that must mean that he’s secure and self sufficient.

“Your water is spilling everywhere,” Tanaka interrupts helpfully, poking Yamaguchi in the back.

Yamaguchi turns around in horror. “What?” he asks, trying to find ways to justify his distraction. “Really?”

His head turns towards the water cooler. His bottle is overflowing, threatening to overwhelm the metal grate it sits on. Trickles are beginning to make their way to the ground. 

“S - sorry,” he stutters out, cursing his incompetence.

Tanaka looks like he’s trying to abate the situation. “No worries, dude.” He holds his hand up in a calming gesture. “Just wanted to let you know.” 

Yamaguchi’s cheeks start to heat up. “Thanks,” he mumbles, ducking his head. He yanks the bottle from the cooler, wincing when it spills water onto the ground.

Making it back to his desk is hell. If someone squinted enough, they could probably see the trail of dark drops from the cooler to his desk.

He resolves to never read the poster again. 

-

Yamaguchi doesn’t get therapy. Tsukishima is beyond frustrated, and as a result, beyond feeling anything at all. 

He’s a firm believer of giving up when things don’t go his way. Unfortunately, in this case, his job is dependent on following through with every step.

Even Yamaguchi’s _coworkers_ used their additional insurance. Both of them went because it was “a new experience” for them, and also because they “wanted to make the most out of their insurance”. Ironically, despite being people who need therapy the least, they ended up benefiting the most out of it.

The angry looking coworker is starting to curb his temper. The red head seems to be expressing his emotions concisely, rather than trying to communicate via indistinguishable noises and frustration.

They both seem more relaxed, and from the records of their therapists(Tsukishima glazes over their names, still resolute on never learning them), they seem to be making actual progress.

It even shows up in Yamaguchi. His shoulders aren’t so heavy after workdays. His juniors are fighting less, so he doesn’t have to babysit as much. He only deals with the softened versions of their personalities, and he seems to enjoy their company now. 

A thought hits Tsukishima - maybe Yamaguchi is taking this as a sign not to get therapy. He’s interpreting everything around him as evidence that his life is fine, when it has only changed marginally.

“Goddamn,” Tsukishima curses under his breath. Despite following the steps he was supposed to, he’s managed to fuck up again. 

He flips back to the book of guidelines. There shouldn’t be any steps after therapy, ideally, but he has the faintest idea of more text after all of the steps.

His hands stumble on the pages before reaches the passage he needs.

_If all else fails, social interaction must be forced. The wish granter, with the knowledge they have accumulated, must interact with the project themselves._

He leans forward immediately, face incredibly close to the paper. There’s no way that’s true. There’s simply no way, he reasons, the page bumping his glasses a hair askew, that this would be what the higher ups have suggested.

His eyes immediately go to the next paragraph.

_Research has proven that interaction is influential in gifting “happiness”. It is expected of wish granters to use their information of the project to prompt adequate social interaction._

Adequate social interaction? _Expected of wish granters?_ A wish granter’s job is to make things happen. How do you do that when the wish is an immaterial concept?

Dread goes through him like a lightning flash. He has to talk to Yamaguchi in person. He has to somehow interact with a man who dislikes interacting, and needs to be successful enough to make him happy. 

Dropping the book on his desk, he takes his glasses off. He’s never going to finish this case. The prospect of quitting his job suddenly seems tempting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! this chapter was short, but lemme tell ya: the plot starts picking up after this point. chapters will also be longer, so that's good too! 
> 
> i wanted to let you know that i'm participating in tsukkiyama week(from august 23-29). i'll be posting a work every day in that allotted time period, so look out for those. i've already started writing some of the prompts and they've been fun so far.
> 
> i post excerpts of wips(which i have an excess of) on my twitter, one of which is the fic i'm writing for tsukkiyama week. it's a chongus. i'm having a blast writing it, and i hope you all enjoy it when i publish it.
> 
> (a drinking game idea: take a shot every time tsukki says he's considering quitting his job)


	7. Chapter 7

Tsukishima makes it to the office incredibly late. He doesn’t have to clock in at regular hours anymore, since his new task is to match Yamaguchi’s terrible work schedule.

His office is oddly cool and vacant. He opens the door to sign in, and then immediately makes his way back out.

“Oi, Tsukki,” Kuroo calls out, and Tsukishima mentally curses. 

Kuroo sticks his head out of his office, which is unfortunately located beside the exit. A look of recognition comes on his face. “You’re not telling me…” he trails off. 

Tsukishima digs his feet into the ground, and his previous speedy departure makes him lean slightly forward. “What, Kuroo?” he challenges. He feels incredibly embarrassed and out of place, and he hasn’t even left the building yet.

Kuroo looks sympathetic. “It’s gotten that bad?” he asks, head still sticking out of his door.

“Yes,” Tsukishima responds irritably. He makes a great show of looking at his wristwatch. “And I’m getting late. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

Kuroo’s expression turns into smugness instantly. Tsukishima suppresses the urge to snap at him. “Alright,” he replies, drawing out the word. “Don’t let me keep you.”

 _But you already have,_ Tsukishima mentally complains. He makes sure none of it shows on his face. Instead, he nods politely, making his way to the exit. 

* * *

The restaurant is packed. Tsukishima, apparently being both a sadist and a masochist, made sure it would be that way.

He spots Yamaguchi immediately. After months of looking at him through blurry security cameras, the sight still surprises him. 

Yamaguchi’s posture looks more defeated in person. He flicks through something on his phone, idly eating fries the whole time, and shifts slightly away from people who come too close to him.

Tsukishima internally winces. Yamaguchi looks more at edge than usual, and also like he’s about to leave the place at any moment.

He intends to stay for much longer, though. Adjusting his tie, he stands in the line he’s seen Yamaguchi order at countless times. 

The restaurant is muggy in the summer heat, and the din of people’s body heat and chatter is like a heavy blanket. Grease splatters in grills behind the cash registers. This is already a place he would never set foot in.

“Your order?” the cashier asks. “Hello?” 

Tsukishima’s head snaps towards the cashier. _How embarrassing,_ he chides himself. His feet had moved subconsciously, and now he’s at the front of the line. Customers shift behind him like a massive blob, threatening to spill over his boundaries. 

“Sorry,” he says. He looks at the menu hanging above him. “Is there any strawberry shortcake?”

The cashier’s eyebrows raise. “We don’t carry that.”

Tsukishima glances towards Yamaguchi, who’s still sitting down, but looking antsier by the minute. He jiggles his leg impatiently. “Do you have anything with strawberries?” he asks, trying to make himself as direct as possible.

“We have strawberry sundaes,” the cashier says, and from the slight way her jaw moves, she’s chewing gum. “And also strawberry ice cream, and -”

“I’ll take the strawberry sundae,” Tsukishima interrupts, trying to seem as polite as he can. Yamaguchi is almost finishing his fries. The moment he scrapes the bottom of the container, Tsukishima’s out of luck. 

A white glob slides over the cashier’s teeth as she says, “Alright.” She punches in the order so slowly that Tsukishima has the urge to do it himself. “Anything else? Soda?”

The mugginess is starting to condense on Tsukishima’s collar. “No thanks,” he responds, his voice tight and restrained, as if that’ll make the order come quicker.

The cashier takes the money he places in her hands. “Thanks,” she says, opening the register with a series of chimes. She points towards the end of the counter, using her other hand to push a receipt into Tsukishima’s hand. “Your order should be over there.”

Tsukishima gives her a tight smile. “Thank you.” He stands over the counter, which is quite low. If he stood on his tiptoes, he could see over the splattering grease and into the freezers.

He can’t help but check his wristwatch subtly. From the corner of his eye, Yamaguchi has stopped eating to watch something on his phone. His basket of fries is at a sizable level, and most importantly, there’s no one sitting in the empty spot in front of him.

An employee pushes a sundae towards him. “Your order?” he asks, adjusting the towel thrown over his shoulder.

Tsukishima puts it in his hands before he replies, saying, “Yes.” He hangs the receipt from his free hand, to which the employee nods at. _Some security measures,_ he mentally scoffs. He plucks out a plastic fork and makes headway to Yamaguchi’s empty table.

Despite trying his best to seem calm, his leg grazes the chair of a customer. The sundae is cold in his hands, raising the possibility of frostbite, and he hasn’t even spared it a glance since the moment he got it.

Yamaguchi is still sitting there. The blue light of his phone reflects in his eyes. When Tsukishima focuses on his face, he thinks, _Huh, that’s a lot of freckles._

Yamaguchi looks up at him. 

_Fuck._ Tsukishima clutches the sundae in his hand, even though it causes a dull pain to shoot through his fingers. “Can I sit here?” he asks, nodding towards the empty seat. He feels ridiculous and out of place.

Yamaguchi’s eyes flick from Tsukishima’s eyes to his sundae. His finger slips on his phone, and when he grips it again, he accidentally increases the volume. “Sure,” he answers, and immediately goes back to eating and scrolling.

Tsukishima sits down. His legs are already starting to cramp up in the confined space, and the chair he’s in is uncomfortable and unstable.

He suppresses the urge to click his tongue, and looks at what he ordered instead.

The sundae isn’t terrible. It’s vanilla ice cream covered in strawberry syrup, and there’s a maraschino cherry balanced precariously on top of it. The problem is that Tsukishima doesn’t care for sundaes. Especially on a weekday night.

A rustling causes him to look up. Yamaguchi’s sorting through the last of his fries, his face still fixed on his phone.

Tsukishima pokes his fork hesitantly into his sundae. He immediately gives up trying to eat the ice cream, and settles for the maraschino cherry instead.

He thinks he sees Yamaguchi’s eyes flicker towards his sundae, but before he knows it, Yamaguchi has already gotten up.

Yamaguchi goes through the motions Tsukishima’s seen so often on camera: he takes the container and folds it up into a little square, and as he makes his way out, he throws it in the trash.

Tsukishima is suddenly alone. He stares sullenly at his sundae. It’s a half melted mess, with the white melting into the syrup in creamy streaks. 

_This was supposed to happen,_ he thinks dejectedly, poking at his food. He stops a trickle from making its way onto the table with his fork. 

It’ll take time for Yamaguchi to talk to him. From the volleyball incident, he projects he’ll have to wait around a week and a half.

A week and a half of eating sundaes. Tsukishima sits in the heavy, chatter laden environment of the restaurant, and rests his head in his hand.

* * *

Tsukishima overflows the restaurant for one and a half weeks straight. He almost feels bad for the cashier he greets, who looks more disgruntled each night, and the way the restaurant’s employees are in a constant state of stress.

It’s the most attention they’ve received in a while, he reasons. They should be thanking him.

“A strawberry sundae,” he rattles off, nearing the counter. The cashier’s hair is sticking to her cheeks with sweat. He winces in sympathy, because his dress shirt is plastering to his body in the unbearable heat.

The cashier takes his money without a word. Her mouth is set in a resolute line, and she thumbs towards her side.

Tsukishima immediately moves there, grateful for escaping the mass of bodies pushing into his space.

“Sundae?” the line cook says, shoving it towards him. He doesn’t even ask for a receipt.

“Yeah.” Tsukishima is about to get a fork when a mass of other people join him. They clamber around the counter, milling and chatting, and he has no way of reaching the utensils.

The stupid ice cream is biting his fingers cold. The restaurant employee, perhaps fleeing the crowd of people demanding their orders, have retreated into the kitchens. 

“Tch,” Tsukishima complains, moving back from all the people. He’s clogging the line up since he already has his order.

No other place to go than Yamaguchi’s table, he supposes. He’ll figure out his utensil problem later.

Yamaguchi is sitting there, scrolling through things on his phone. Upon closer inspection, he’s zoned out, and he’s staring at the space above the camera. His finger is poised to press something, hovering a centimeter above the screen.

Tsukishima scrapes the floor as he draws back a chair. “Can I sit here?” he asks, holding his sundae in one hand. Every single day, for one and a half weeks straight, he’s said some variation of that phrase.

Yamaguchi’s head snaps up, like it always has for the past one and a half weeks. “Sure,” he allows, after he recognizes that it’s Tsukishima. His finger begins to scroll again.

Setting the sundae down, Tsukishima wiggles his fingers to regain feeling in them. Just when he’s about to dig in, he realizes that he doesn’t have any utensils.

“God,” he mutters under his breath. He’s sure no one heard that. It’s quite loud in the restaurant. 

He cranes his neck to see if there’s any utensil tills. Just when he’s about to stand, already dreading his inevitable search for a fork, Yamaguchi speaks up.

“Uh,” Yamaguchi says, setting down his phone. He points to the till behind them. His eyes, once they’re not blasted by blue light or obscured by shitty cameras, are a deep brown. “There’s forks over there.”

His voice is full bodied and smooth, and Tsukishima is leaning into the sound before he knows it. 

“Thanks,” Tsukishima replies, snapping himself out of his reverie. He pushes the previous thought into the corners of his mind. 

As he walks towards where Yamaguchi’s pointing, he feels the slightest sense of accomplishment. Yamaguchi has finally talked to him. Even if it’s about forks, it means something.

* * *

The restaurant is at maximum capacity. When Tsukishima looks behind him, he sees the cashier’s line spanning outside the doorway, which bodes an eventual over capacity.

 _Maybe I should curb the customers,_ he thinks to himself. The discounts he’s enforced are highway robbery. There’s no other reason people would come to this dying restaurant. 

At his table, Yamaguchi looks like he’s trying to diminish his bodily presence. Each wave of people seems to irritate him, and he’s started to increase his eating speed as of late.

 _Not on my watch,_ Tsukishima thinks, resolutely pushing up his glasses. They slide down slightly because of the sweat on his face. The air from the fans placed everywhere only annoys him, like a constant prodding of warmth all over.

“We’re out of ice cream.” The cashier looks glum and sullen. It’s presumably because of the customers who demanded ice cream prior.

Tsukishima looks behind him. Half of the people in this line are here for ice cream alone. It’s a blistering night, full of teenagers and groups of families, and they’re all here to escape their overheated homes.

“Do you have anything else with strawberries in it?” he asks. His glasses slide as he talks, causing his temper to flare irrationally. He takes them off and furiously wipes the sweat from them. 

The cashier sighs, sounding drawn out and tired. Her eyes flicker towards the long line, which is starting to grow along the outside of the store, and the mass of people behind him. 

“Pancakes,” she says simply.

Tsukishima pauses mid-wipe. He looks at the cashier, his eyes automatically straining at her blurry form. “Nothing cold?” he asks, because if he increases his internal body temperature with pancakes, he might detonate.

“Nope.” The cashier pokes her tongue into her cheek. “Nothing cold.”

“...How about cake?” Tsukishima pries, putting his glasses back on. He’s hoping to god there’s at least chilled food.

“Vanilla?” the cashier asks. She doesn’t bother asking Tsukishima what flavours they have. Her posture is drooped over the machine, and she seems too tired to stand properly.

Tsukishima decides to be forgiving this time. The line is getting louder behind him, and he doesn’t want someone to tell him off for taking too long. “I’ll take it.” 

The cashier holds out her hand. “It’s on the register,” she prompts, and Tsukishima’s eyebrows raise slightly.

He looks at the numbers flashing on the screen. _$8.87._ Rather expensive for a cake, and probably not worth it. “The discount…?” he mentions, referring to the one he enforced weeks ago.

“Not applicable.” 

He pushes up his glasses again. “Right.” He takes out a tenner and puts it in her hand. The person behind him rushes forward. “Keep the change.”

The cashier looks up at him with slight gratefulness. “Thanks.”

 _It’s not like I had any other choice,_ Tsukishima thinks afterwards, eyeing the way the line of customers scrambles ahead. 

“Cake?” another employee asks, pushing a plate of cake towards him. She’s not the same guy from before, who always has a towel thrown on his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Tsukishima dangles his receipt, watching as the employee okays it without reading it. He’s far past criticizing the nature of this restaurant.

From the side, the cashier stops what she’s doing abruptly. “Oi, Michimiya,” she says, and the girl in front of Tsukishima looks at her.

“Yeah?” Michimiya says, turning towards the cashier.

The cashier bites her lip and her cheek before finally saying, “Cover for me.”

Michimiya’s face takes on shock. She wipes her brow with her forearm. “What?” she asks. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m done.” The cashier takes off her work apron and closes the register. She takes a small key out of her pocket and places it squarely in Michimiya’s palm.

Michimiya stands there, key in hand. She watches the cashier stalk off into the kitchens, before calling out, “W-wait!”

The line of customers is still moving and chattering. “What the hell?” someone says. He nudges his wife. “What was that?”

Tsukishima, who was watching the whole thing, shoves his plate into his hands. The crowd starts to get louder and louder. It moves like a discombobulated mess, and he makes haste to Yamaguchi’s table.

The moment he sits down again, he realizes that he forgot his fork. 

“...What’s happening?” Yamaguchi asks him, eyes wide and questioning. He’s almost done his basket of fries. He’s sorting through the crispy bits that gather at the bottom.

“Hm?” Tsukishima asks, and immediately regrets his response. 

Yamaguchi points towards the line with his phone. “The line. Why’s it getting so loud?”

Tsukishima moves his plate closer to himself. “A cashier quit on the spot.”

Furrowing his brows, Yamaguchi says, “Oh. Poor thing.”

“She seemed stressed.”

Yamaguchi snorts slightly. “Poor timing for the customers, I guess.”

Tsukishima looks at Yamaguchi, who’s gone back to scrolling his phone. In another world, he’d most definitely let the conversation die. His case, as stupid as it is, makes him open his mouth again. 

“Well,” he starts. Yamaguchi’s head snaps up, and so does his level of anxiety. “They can deal with it.”

He waits in trepidation for Yamaguchi’s face. This is where he makes or breaks his shot.

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi says, the end of his lip twitching into a small grin. He spares a look at the line of customers. “That’s true.”

Success. The tenseness in Tsukishima’s shoulders dissipates, just like all of the moisture in the sweltering restaurant. 

He pulls his cake closer so he can finally enjoy it. Belatedly, he realizes that he forgot to get a fork in the commotion of earlier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they finally met, y'all!! it took them like 15k words to actually talk to each other!! i wasn't lying when i said this would be a slow burn lmfao.
> 
> this chapter isn't as well edited bc i'm working on tskymweek prompts. i don't think i'll be able to deliver everything on time, but oh well. it's not a huge deal. (although i did want to see if i could pull off writing all the prompts in a week, alas)
> 
> also, another thing: you guys are so sweet. the interactions i get from this fic warm my lil heart. i didn't think this niche prompt would attract any people. tysm for all the comments/kudos/etc. hope u all are doing well in these trying times.


	8. Chapter 8

“Uh,” Yamaguchi stutters, the moment he sees Tsukishima appear at his table.

Tsukishima stops his hand from touching the chair. “Is this seat taken?” he asks cautiously, because if it is, he’s going to have to reformulate his plans. 

Yamaguchi nods his head. Tsukishima draws the chair out, wincing at how loud it scrapes against the ground. He’s been stuck with a faulty one this time.

“Are you from around here?” Yamaguchi asks, and then looks like he wants to take back his words. “I mean, not like that, but -”

“Only recently,” Tsukishima cuts in, taking pity on Yamaguchi’s stammering. He stabs his fork into the funnel cake he bought. He’s eaten sundaes so often that he’s getting sick of them. “What about you?”

Yamaguchi nudges his phone away from the edge of the table. “I’ve been here for a year.”

Tsukishima stares at his funnel cake. Small talk is what he’s been waiting two and a half weeks for, but that doesn’t change how much he hates it. 

He looks at Yamaguchi’s inquisitive face. When Yamaguchi isn’t looking down at his phone, his hair frames his face slightly.

“It’s a nice neighbourhood,” Tsukishima says offhandedly. Truth be told, he’s not sure what else to reply with. Yamaguchi hasn’t given him very many options. 

Yamaguchi hums. “Yeah.”

Poking into his funnel cake with his fork, Tsukishima tries to think of something to say. Anything.

“What’s your name?” Yamaguchi asks, and then retreats slightly inwards.

Tsukishima looks at him, pushing up his glasses. “Tsukishima Kei. And yours?”

Yamaguchi shuffles through his basket of fries. “Yamaguchi Tadashi.” He looks up, giving Tsukishima a perfunctory smile. “Nice to meet you.”

How odd, Tsukishima muses, that he probably knows more about Yamaguchi than Yamaguchi himself.

Pushing the thought from his head, he gives a similar polite smile back. “You too,” he replies, and Yamaguchi goes right back to scrolling through his phone.

* * *

Tsukishima doesn’t have to ask before drawing out a chair anymore. Yamaguchi only looks up from his phone, giving him a small nod, before going back to whatever he was doing. 

It’s progress. Something is going right, and Tsukishima’s trying his best not to mess anything up. 

“Doing alright?” Yamaguchi suddenly asks. Despite looking like he hates initiating small talk, he does it anyways. 

_Strange,_ Tsukishima thinks. He decides to spare Yamaguchi from his silence. “Doing good.” 

He pokes at his cake, which he requested to have drenched in strawberry syrup. The new cashier had to figure out how to add that as a payment, which caused the line to stall, but it was worth it. 

“How are you?” he adds on, realizing that he stewed in silence for too long. He cringes when he looks up, because Yamaguchi was waiting awkwardly the whole time. 

Yamaguchi’s awkwardness dispels instantly. “Also doing good.” He pokes at his fries, looking somewhat glum.

“Where -” he starts, stuffing his hand fully into his basket of fries, fishing out the soft ones, “where are you originally from?” 

Tsukishima picks up a bite that consists of only frosting and syrup. “Sendai.” He piles a strawberry onto the lump of frosting on his fork. “What about you?”

The conversation already seems stilted and scripted. Tsukishima leans in forwards, trying an attempt at looking attentive. His movements, although he tries to make them as smooth as possible, end up slightly jerky and robotic.

 _Scratch that,_ Tsukishima thinks, adjusting his position stiffly. _This is going terribly._

“Miyagi.” Yamaguchi eats the soft, floppy fry. Tsukishima finds that he’s just as disappointed in his eating affinities as he was before.

“So you’re from around here?” Tsukishima questions, pausing to eat his bite. The sugar dissolves pleasantly on his tongue. 

Yamaguchi shrugs. “In a way,” he replies. The basket of fries rustles as he digs for soft fries. “I lived in the countryside. I hadn’t really been to Miyagi until I moved out.”

Tsukishima hums in a way he hopes is conversational. “How’s the countryside different from the city?” he asks. He already knows what Yamaguchi’s going to say, because the answer is obvious. 

“Oh,” Yamaguchi says, a little light coming back into his eyes. “Everything is spaced out. But it’s really close together, you know?”

 _What does that mean?_ Tsukishima wonders, but he says, “Yeah. I get that.”

Yamaguchi’s lips curve into a small smile. “It’s nice. It’s not like the city.”

“And what’s the city like?” Tsukishima asks, unable to help himself.

“It’s farther apart,” Yamaguchi replies, resting his chin into his hand. “With far too many people.”

Tsukishima raises his eyebrows. “Far too many people, huh?” he asks.

Yamaguchi forces out a laugh. “Well,” he acquiesces, as if he’s already starting to doubt himself. “Yeah.”

He looks down at his fries. A notification causes his phone to buzz, and his shoulders droop slightly as he checks it out.

Tsukishima clearly underestimated how easy he used to have it. In his office, safe between his air conditioned four walls(save for Kuroo), he simply had to stare at his monitor.

Yamaguchi was easy to figure out that way. Tsukishima could just analyze his posture and remedy his sorrows, because he’s a wish granter. 

Now, however, he has to rely on his personality, which has been crafted around talking to people as little as possible. 

“I lived in the suburbs,” he says, interrupting the awkward and heavy silence. Yamaguchi’s eyes snap upwards to look him in the face. “So I can’t tell the difference.”

“Really?” Yamaguchi asks, turning over his phone. _Success,_ crows Tsukishima’s mind, and he wills it to shut up. “Best of both worlds, I guess.”

Tsukishima sections off another bite for himself. This time, he chooses the part of the cake that’s been drenched with syrup. “Ah, yes,” he deadpans, smoothing ample frosting over the cake. “Being too far away from the city, and being too close to everyone else.”

Yamaguchi laughs. It breaks his face momentarily, ridding it of its stress. “If you put it that way,” he replies easily, shoulders seeming light of their previous weight, “it sounds worse than the city.” 

“It’s not that bad,” Tsukishima says, half shrugging. In the back of his mind, he’s reminiscing about the clean cut houses and the trimmed lawns of his neighbourhood. “Not as bad as the city.”

“What don’t you like about the city?” Yamaguchi asks, looking surprised.

Tsukishima recalls Yamaguchi’s previous words. “It’s farther apart,” he repeats, “with too many people.” 

In reality, he doesn’t care much about the city. Everything is the same to him, because he spends all of his time in his office. 

Yamaguchi’s lips rise into a small smile at the mention of his own words. “Guess that’s true.”

He begins to eat his fries in earnest, while Tsukishima picks off the frosting from his cake. They sit in silence that isn’t uncomfortable in the least. 

* * *

Yamaguchi’s going through his phone with boredom, scrolling quickly.

“Oh,” he says, looking up as Tsukishima brings out a chair. “Hello.”

Tsukishima gives him a nod. He holds pancakes this time, because he’s been eating syrup drenched cake for far too long. “Hello,” he greets back. “How are you doing?”

He sounds like a robot. If Kuroo were here, he’d be giving him a shit eating smile from the sidelines. 

Yamaguchi seems unperturbed. “Fine. You?” 

“Pretty good.” Tsukishima would sigh, but he’s trying his best not to seem condescending. 

The conversation bellies up immediately. As if a cord had snapped, Yamaguchi goes back to sorting through his fries, and Tsukishima pokes at his pancakes with a slight sense of deflation.

 _What happened?_ Tsukishima thinks dully. His pancakes are thoroughly soaked in syrup, and they fall apart on his fork. 

Yamaguchi looks at his phone intently. He seems lost in thought. 

“What’s -” Tsukishima starts, breaking the silence. He wants to wince, but he makes sure to steel himself as much as possible. “What’s your occupation?”

“Sorry?” Yamaguchi asks, looking up from his phone. “My what?”

Tsukishima resists the urge to bite his tongue. “Your job. What is it?”

A look of realization goes over Yamaguchi’s face. “Oh,” he says, brightening up slightly. “I’m in mechatronics.”

“Really?” Tsukishima prompts. He knows this already. He knows nearly everything about Yamaguchi, and forcing conversation about it seems wrong. “As an engineer?”

Yamaguchi shuts off his phone screen. “Yeah.” He looks away self consciously, adding on, “For Karasuno Electronics.”

Tsukishima hums in recognition. “Karasuno Electronics,” he repeats, and catches the slightest amount of pride in Yamaguchi’s face. “That’s quite impressive.” From the amount of times he’s pored over his monitor, Karasuno Electronics’ logo might as well be branded into his brain. 

“W - well,” Yamaguchi stutters, “you could say that.”

“They’ve made nearly all of the things in my office.” Tsukishima idly spreads syrup on his over saturated pancakes. “What exactly do you work on?”

He’s seen Yamaguchi’s work before - drafts upon drafts of drawings, calculations, and programming. Yamaguchi seems to be doing more than his job entails. 

Yamaguchi shrugs. “A lot of things, really. Stuff like programming or designing.” He looks up in thought, trying to add onto his response. “Oh,” he interrupts, eyes going to Tsukishima’s face. “I also mentor junior positions.”

“Mentor, huh?” Tsukishima asks. He knows how much baggage that word has, but he doesn’t let his recognition show. “Sounds interesting.”

Yamaguchi laughs. It sounds partially empty, and it rings through the underpopulated restaurant. “You could say that.” 

Tsukishima doesn’t know how to reply. “I’m lucky, I suppose,” he tries, feeling like he’s throwing darts in the dark. “Since my job doesn’t require me to do that.” 

Humming, Yamaguchi rests his face in his hand. He stares at a corner of the table.

Tsukishima clears his throat. “It must be annoying.”

“Oh,” Yamaguchi says, ripping his eyes from the corner of the table, “that’s not entirely true. They’re not bad.”

“That’s good.” Tsukishima resists the urge to frown at his plate of food. A tense, uncertain energy wavers through the air. He tries his best to ignore it.

Yamaguchi leans back in his chair. He avoids touching his phone, and opts for looking around the empty restaurant instead. “It’s just that…” he starts, voice trailing off already. “They’re energetic.”

Tsukishima raises his eyebrows and hopes it looks sympathetic. The act feels foreign on his face, since he’s so used to training into a flat, unsatisfied stare. 

“Hm,” he hums, and feels this conversation start to grate away at his patience. “Must be exhausting.”

Yamaguchi shrugs again. “It’s like any other job,” he says offhandedly, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “So it’s just as exhausting as them.”

The response makes Tsukishima tilt his head thoughtfully. Yamaguchi has dark, purplish eye bags, and his entire body sags on his chair. He seems to be holding himself up from sheer willpower alone. 

His tenacity is strange. Tsukishima has seen him sigh countless times, wring his hands as if they’re perpetually wet dishcloths, and order far more fries than the average person. 

_Weird,_ Tsukishima thinks, stabbing his fork into his plate of syrup saturated mush. _Yamaguchi is weird._

He plasters on a polite smile. “Good point,” he replies, unwilling to let this conversation careen onto the wrong path. Instead, he focuses his energy on trying to finish his food. 

* * *

The restaurant is nearly empty. Employees hang around the counters, morosely busying themselves with meaningless tasks. 

Tsukishima, on the other hand, is relieved. He doesn’t have to stand in ridiculously long lines amongst stifling body heat. There’s no clambering children behind him as he orders, and there’s no shortage of cold food in the unbearable heat. 

“I’ll have a sundae,” he says politely to the cashier. He unconsciously basks in the new elbow room he has. 

The new cashier types in his order. “With the extra syrup, right?” she asks, peering from under her visor.

“Yeah,” Tsukishima answers, eyes flitting to where Yamaguchi is sitting.

He seems more at ease, and as a result, is only a quarter of the way through his fries.

 _Good,_ Tsukishima thinks, as he places money into the cashier’s hand. He counted it beforehand, so he doesn’t bother to check the amount.

The cashier nods towards the end of the counter. The sundae is sitting there before he can walk over, so he grabs a spoon on the way.

It’s a routine that’s embedded in his memory. Before he knows it, he’s drawn out a chair at Yamaguchi’s table, and he’s settling his things down.

“Oh,” Yamaguchi says, looking up from his phone. He doesn’t look as bad today. Perhaps he actually got some sleep this past week. “Hello.”

Tsukishima nods. He stabs his spoon into his sundae, which looks like a strawberry syrup ocean with a chunk of ice cream in it. “Doing alright?” he asks, and braces himself for the typical small talk that follows.

Yamaguchi nods in return, which is exactly what Tsukishima expected. “Pretty good. You?”

Tsukishima catches a strawberry piece on his spoon. He inwardly sighs at the monotony of the conversation, but he continues on anyways. “Doing fine,” he replies, and he can’t help himself from sounding slightly bored.

If Yamaguchi’s facial expression changes, Tsukishima can’t tell. All he can hear is Yamaguchi’s rustling as he goes through his fries.

 _Great,_ he mentally complains, _another conversation I have to start._ The weird atmosphere from yesterday’s conversation starts to settle, and he tries his best to ignore it. 

“You never told me what your job was.” Yamaguchi has stopped sorting through his fries, and now he’s looking directly at Tsukishima.

“My job?” Tsukishima asks, and mentally scrambles as he finds a way to properly bullshit his answer.

Yamaguchi’s typical nervousness starts to bear its head. “I mean,” he quickly adds on, already becoming frantic in his movements, “if that was rude or something, sorry, I didn’t mean for it -”

“I.” Tsukishima’s still thinking of a way to answer his question without giving away his actual profession. “It’s fine,” he reassures, peering over his glasses to look at Yamaguchi. Yamaguchi’s head is a blurry blob, but he can still make out his worry lines and his downturned mouth.

Tsukishima takes his spoon out of his sundae. “I’m in the military.”

Yamaguchi’s tense posture sags, and he leans forward in interest instead. “Really? What’s your position?” he asks.

“Weapons engineering,” Tsukishima answers easily. It’s the first thing he can think of, and it also happens to be Akiteru’s job.

Luckily for him, Akiteru could spend(and has spent) several hours raving about his job to him.

“That’s so cool!” Yamaguchi exclaims, eyes turning starry. “I always thought military jobs were cool.”

Tsukishima goes back to dismembering his sundae. “You think it’s cool?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. If only he could switch places with Yamaguchi whenever Akiteru talks about his job. 

“Working for Karasuno Electronics is also cool.” The colloquial language slips off of his tongue awkwardly. He’s been around his old coworkers and Kuroo too often.

Yamaguchi blushes slightly at the mention of his workplace. “Well,” he deflects, waving his hand offhandedly, “it’s cool, yeah. But military jobs are cooler.”

Tsukishima swirls his ice cream into the syrup lake. “How so?” he prompts, and thanks his luck for giving him a workable conversation topic.

“You don’t think they’re cool?” Yamaguchi asks incredulously. His phone is askew on the table. 

“Not really,” Tsukishima says, giving himself a sizable bite. 

Yamaguchi’s eyebrows rise at the comment. “It’s _weapons engineering,”_ he empathizes. “I think everyone’s dreamed of being a weapons engineer.”

“I don’t know,” Tsukishima notes dryly, after finally eating his bite. The sweetness of it cloys at his tongue even after he’s swallowed. “That sounds awfully specific.” 

Yamaguchi’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Oh, come on,” he ribs. “You can’t deny it.”

Against his instincts, Tsukishima feels himself smirk in kind. “Fine,” he says, giving in. Suddenly, all of Akiteru’s detailed explanations of his job seem interesting. “I won’t deny it.”

Leaning back, Yamaguchi crosses his arms in satisfaction. “Good.” He takes a fry from his basket without looking. “What exactly do you do?”

Tsukishima looks up in thought, recalling Akiteru’s lengthy speeches. “Overlook production, mainly,” he responds. Akiteru specializes in design, and he curses himself for not saying that instead. “Occasionally I’ll design things.”

“Overlook production?” Yamaguchi inquires. His head is slightly tilted, and he almost looks like an attentive dog.

 _Crap._ Tsukishima barely knows about production.“It’s on a larger scale,” he bullshits, hoping he sounds confident in his delivery. “I fix problems on an industrial level.”

To his relief, Yamaguchi nods in understanding. “Right.” He eats another fry without looking at his basket. “There’s similar positions in my company.”

“Mass production of electronics?” Tsukishima asks.

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi agrees, “something like that.”

Tsukishima stares at his sundae, which is now half melted. Just as he wracks his brain for something to say, Yamaguchi interrupts him.

“Have you ever tested explosives?” 

_Should I lie?_ Tsukishima thinks frantically. _Or should I risk ending the conversation by saying no?_

“Unfortunately not,” he says, and already regrets his answer from the way Yamaguchi’s face drops in disappointment. “But some of my coworkers have,” he hastily adds on. For a split second, he imagines Kuroo near explosives. He feels his blood pressure immediately increase. 

“Oh!” Yamaguchi leans in again. “They’re lucky. How come you haven’t done that?”

“Well,” Tsukishima says dryly, resting his head in his hand, “I’d rather not risk tinnitus.”

Yamaguchi laughs. It’s a sound that rings clearly in the empty restaurant. “That’s true, I guess,” he acquiesces, uncrossing his arms to lean on the table. 

His engagement is a nice change. It strikes Tsukishima that this is the first time he’s seen him laugh.

“You know,” Tsukishima adds on, eyes taking on an amused glint, “my coworkers are probably the last people who should be trusted with explosives.”

Yamaguchi raises his eyebrows. “Really? Why?”

Tsukishima imagines the chaos in his mind: Kuroo with his grandiose, jargon filled explanations about science, or Shimizu’s secretary cowering behind her. 

“I have this one colleague,” he starts, “who’s quite passionate about these things.”

He allows himself to ramble about his workplace. Yamaguchi hums and nods at just the right moments.

* * *

_“Kei?”_ Akiteru asks, somehow sounding both tired and eager at the same time. 

Tsukishima winces, holding the phone a foot away from his face. “Akiteru,” he greets, voice polite and firm.

“Listen,” Akiteru says, voice sounding gravelly even across the phone, “I like when you call me -”

Tsukishima resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“But it’s, like,” there’s rustling as Akiteru finds out the time on his phone, “two am. Why are you calling so late?”

“I need to ask you something.” Tsukishima pushes up his glasses. The impulsivity of his call makes him feel slightly guilty, but he pushes it down. “It’s for my job.”

He can hear Akiteru perking up. “Your job?” Akiteru asks, all of his tiredness gone. “Sure. What do you wanna know?”

Tsukishima would snort, but he doesn’t want to get on his tired brother’s nerves. “I need information about _your_ job, actually,” he answers. He conveniently leaves out the part about faking being a weapons engineer, or how he has to do that for an unspecified amount of time. 

There’s fumbling as Akiteru gets into a sitting position. “Of course!” he replies, in a way that’s far too chipper for someone who got woken up five hours early. “Where do you want to start?”

 _Everything,_ he wants to say. 

“How often do you test explosives?” is what he asks instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! i'm finally back after like three weeks. i participated in tskymweek2020 and it was a blast. tysm for 100+ kudos on "shy-flowering nature" and "love like dominoes"!! i really appreciate all of the support. i'm sort of new to hq and tsukkiyama, and i didn't think i would be received so kindly.
> 
> anyways. classes have started and they're fucking brutal. i have no time at all. i will probably switch to updating on sundays every four weeks. that might become longer bc holy shit man, i'm drowning in schoolwork. 
> 
> hope u guys are doing well! make sure to go to sleep at proper times lol. wear a mask, stay safe, etc.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! updates will be coming one week apart at the least, and three/four at the most. [here's my twitter](https://twitter.com/burningutica) and [here's my tumblr](https://phyllomena.tumblr.com/) if u wanna hmu! i'm currently down to do prompts.


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